I'll Make The Most Of Loving You
by GranthamGal
Summary: Unable to cope or forgive Robert after Sybil's death, Cora takes Violet's advice and travels to Newport to recover from the loss on her own. Lost without his wife, Robert soon follows her there with only one goal in mind: to win back his wife and bring her back home where she belongs.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This prologue serves as the opening for my newest multi-chapter fic. The first official chapter will be posted soon! I do post this story with the slight warning that it is going to be unlike the things I've written in the past. I'll be a Cobert fan always and forever but I am interested in exploring facets of their story that I have perhaps ignored in other work because I enjoy fluff so much. SO, I shall just say that this story will not be a fluff-fest, nor will it necessarily go in the direction my other work has always gone. But I do still hope very much that you all enjoy it.

* * *

A thin layer of dust encased the tables, desks, and various other surfaces throughout the house. The books now, too, had begun to collect dust in silent protestation of their neglect. The library had been empty for over three weeks, the drawing room besting it by several days—it having been empty for nearly four weeks. The windows, usually bright and freshly washed, were dulling and the curtains framing them had frozen in place, not used to remaining still for so very long. The halls were silent and when the odd person happened down one accidentally, the floorboards creaked in agony.

The dining room remained dark, upon strict orders that it was not to be used or entered. The back hallways and other rooms unluckily crafted with no windows had also been shrouded in black for weeks. The house mourned its losses in silent chaos. It mourned what once was and what should have been.

The staff deemed unnecessary had been released weeks before. One by one they slipped silently from the heaping wreckage that had once been so beautiful. They disappeared, leaving the house to fend for itself. Those who remained had no discernable purpose. The butler ambled around the property like a ghost tending to its graveyard, looking for someone, anyone really, to care for. And the housekeeper tried for much the same until the silence became too much to bear. She, too, packed a suitcase and departed sometime in the dull grey mist of days and evenings that all seemed to pack together and form one indiscernible ever-present night.

A dog barked every so often, in vain, for effect. The sound reverberated through the walls and down the hallways, falling upon deaf and long departed ears. A bark, it appeared, was wasted if no one were there to hear it. Soon those noises stopped as well, leaving in their wake only the sound of the butler's shined black shoes tapping up the stairs and down the stairs with painful regularity—once in the morning and once at night. He passed the empty rooms and tried to ignore the quiet whispers of what had been. He ignored the dusty books and shelves, for he had no choice; they were his orders and he would follow them. He walked by the woman's sweater resting on the hall table as if it did not pain him to do so. The sweater, looking as if it awaited its owner's return, had been in that exact location for a month without so much as an inch of movement. And he passed, too, by the bedroom door that remained locked, willing himself so desperately to ignore the rhythmic clinking of ice in a glass coupled with the disturbing sounds of a man who had once been someone great.

But, as is the nature of such cyclical things as life, one morning the house awoke to the slam of a door—the front door, in fact. The house it seemed, having been without its mistress for over a month, was now without a master as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert boarded the train feeling eerily calm. He knew his eyes were bloodshot from the effects of overindulgence but disregarded that as an inessential issue to his plans. Just as he had disregarded his need for any staff, he chose to ignore that which had once seemed important to him. And so he found himself sitting in a small and well-maintained first class train compartment on his way to London without a valet and without much more than his small case would carry.

He had woken that morning quite sure it was the right day to go. A month of near constant drink had given him appropriate time for reflection and with some consternation he decided that reflection was an utter waste of his time. So upon waking to cool sheets and another empty bottle of expensive scotch, he had packed a single leather case with his essentials and left the house without a word.

Unfortunately the ghosts, it seemed, were everywhere. The train ride was just the same as walking around the empty house and Robert found himself reaching absentmindedly to grasp for his wife's hand half way through the journey, only to remember that she had left him nearly a month before. There was nowhere on Earth where he could escape the inevitable realization—the realization that struck him several times a day—that Cora was gone.

He fought the urge to visit the bar car.

He lost that battle and ended up drinking his breakfast alone.

* * *

The room at his club was small. Without Bates he would have to take care of dressing himself come evening, and looking around the uncomfortably compact space he wondered how he would manage it. At Downton it had not been a problem, for most days were spent in pajamas and a dressing gown. There was no one there to dress for anymore.

But he had come to London with certain intentions and was frankly tired of seeing only the four walls of his dressing room. He did manage to dress himself for the evening, though looking in the mirror he knew Cora would have no doubt commented on his slightly crooked tie, and made his way down for dinner.

He had minimal contact with those around him during his actual meal. The other men at the club seemed to be paired off in small groups and he had little interest in making superficial conversation with people he only saw a few times a year anyway. He would much rather have been at Grantham House, for it was the summer season and the house was open, but Edith was there and he knew in no uncertain terms that she did not want to be anywhere near him at present.

_Papa, you will let your stubbornness drive our family to ruin. If you don't fix this, what are we all to do? How will I ever manage to make a proper match for myself if the scandal gets out?_

Edith's words rang in his head throughout the meal, as they often did when he went for a few hours without drink. He had bitterly thought her to be selfish the last time they spoke, thinking only of her marriage prospects and not of the utter pain he already felt. But she was right; the scandal would ruin their already decaying family. He knew gossip had already made its way onto the London scene—Rosamund had told him as much. Now he was not only the earl whose daughter married a chauffeur; the earl whose daughter died recently; the earl who lost nearly all his fortune; he was the earl whose wife had left him. The scandal, unfortunately for both him and Edith, was already out.

And so he stayed at the club and respected his daughter's unsaid wishes. She had packed her things only days after her mother and followed Cora to London. She sent a letter soon after explaining that she would stay on in the London house, as the location was better suited for her newspaper column, even after Cora left for America. She requested that she not be bothered unless it was absolutely necessary.

So he stayed away.

He pondered it again over his meal, thinking it perhaps a good sign that Edith had spoken to him at all after the fact. Her words had been angry and barbed with the pain of losing Sybil, but she had looked him in the eye and said her peace. It was more than Mary had given him at least.

Mary, his darling first-born child, the child he had placed all his hopes and dreams in, remained silent. After Sybil's death, she avoided him like the plague, passing him in the hallways of Downton without so much as a nod. She left before her mother, actually, only four days after the traumatic event. It was Matthew who explained that they would be moving to Crawley House to stay with Isobel; it was too painful, he said, for Mary to be at Downton. She had not said goodbye.

He knew from Rosamund that she and Matthew were coping as best they could, and knew from his sister as well that they were expecting his second grandchild. He assumed that the note meant to inform him of that fact had simply gotten lost in the post.

Rosamund had been the only one willing to give him any sort of information—not that he even requested it. His mother was the one who suggested Cora go off to America. She insisted that Cora needed time away, time to clear her head. He in turn had told his mother to pay him no visits and to never meddle in the affairs of _his _family again. He never expected her to comply; she had spent his entire life meddling, and he expected little more than a sharp reprimand. Instead he found out that less than a week later his mother was gone too, off visiting Shrimpy and Susan up at Donegal for the season. His letter of apology was ignored, though Susan did telephone to confirm her safe arrival.

It was as if they had all conspired against him. As if they needed someone to blame and he, being the most obvious choice, was forced to live out the rest of his days in eternal punishment. It was unfair and painful and more heart wrenching than anything he had ever experienced. They had been through difficult times before, but he never realized just how heavily he relied on those around him to bring them all through to the other side unscathed.

Now he was on his own and he was drowning.

* * *

After a quiet dinner spent dulling the ever-present demons with as much drink as he could muster, Robert trudged off to the sitting room in the hopes of killing off any remaining pain with a bit of cigar smoke.

His respite was short lived.

Soon after sitting down, he looked up, no doubt glassy-eyed, to see Sunny Marlborough approaching the seat beside him. Greeting his old acquaintance warmly, he set to polite conversation as best as he could manage and tried desperately to bring up nothing related to his family. It was Sunny, though, who brought an end to the façade and began asking more pointed questions after only a few moments.

"Robert, word around London is that we are more alike than we were this time last year," he queried with a slight chuckle, lighting a cigar.

"Is that so?" Robert answered noncommittally. He knew exactly what Sunny was talking about, though he wished very much that he did not. The Marlborough's were society's latest topic of conversation, their divorce fresh from the courts. It had been an object of fascination for the last several months, as their types of people usually chose to live out their days in quiet unhappiness rather than publically admit defeat.

"Cora's gone off to New York, hasn't she?" Sunny interrupted, offering a knowing look. "Consuelo went back last year. We tried to make it work, God how we tried. But we just weren't cut from the same cloth, you know?"

"No, I don't…"

Sunny ignored his half-hearted participation and continued, seemingly pleased to have a companion experiencing similar social debacles. "Consuelo was from New York, too, you know." He waited for a slight nod from Robert before going on. "She never understood this way of life. In the end, it just wasn't worth fighting her anymore. She's getting remarried, I hear. And I know I will too. Just need to find someone more suitable than the last," he chuckled.

Robert coughed, cigar smoke burning the back of his throat. His feet felt unsteady beneath him and he could feel the effects of his scotch setting in and making him dizzy. He saw Sunny watching him curiously and wanted very much to ignore the man and rid himself of the horrible reminder that Cora was gone.

"I apologize," Robert finally managed, clearing his throat. "I do not discuss personal matters much; as I am sure you understand, rumors are far more exciting than realities." How he wished that were true.

Sunny nodded and frowned. "So Cora isn't in New York?"

Robert wondered if he could perhaps disappear if he wanted to badly enough.

"Cora is…taking some time to visit her family in New York," he allowed.

"I can give you the name of my solicitor, if you'd like. I was able to keep most of the money Consuelo brought into the marriage, and all of my own," Sunny explained, ignoring Robert's desperate subtle pleas for a change of subject.

"No thank you," Robert replied.

"Well, you'll want to get it started sooner than later. I had a devil of a time getting through it all. And you don't have any sons, correct? If you manage to finish this all soon enough perhaps you can get started on rectifying that as well."

Robert could listen to no more. He stood, swaying only a bit, and bid Sunny a goodnight immediately. He did not care if it was rude. He cared little for social decorum, as of late. Stumbling off to his room, he had to force himself not to go back and punch the man right in the jaw for making such assumptions and such dreadful suggestions.

* * *

All Robert wanted was now sleep, but that was not soon in coming either. He lay awake, still fully clothed in his evening attire, staring up at the ceiling. Sunny's words floated around his mind with the already maddening thoughts that plagued him and made him feel terribly nauseous. Divorce, remarriage, _children. _No, no, he wanted none of that. He wanted one thing. Only one thing. Only ever one thing.

It was another glass of scotch from the bottle tucked into his case that finally quieted his racing thoughts. Sipping the amber liquid, Robert took a few unsteady steps to the window and gazed down on the dark street, wondering if there would ever come a time to feel normal again. When he looked into his glass to find it already empty, he feared the answer was no. But it was late, and as such it was time again for his bedtime routine—as pathetic as it made him feel.

Reaching into his pocket, Robert pulled out the slightly crumpled photograph and silently cursed himself for not stowing it somewhere safer along the trip. He read the inscription on the back, in its familiar writing: _yours always, Cora._ He ran his thumb over the faded words and closed his eyes, remembering the exact moment she had pressed it into his palm, making him promise to keep it close to his heart.

He turned the photograph over until he was looking down at the image of his wife. It was rather sad, he knew, pining for someone who'd not stayed, but as he had done for the last night and every night since her departure, he brought the picture to his lips and murmured a goodnight, placing it on the bedside table before setting about putting on his nightclothes and trying for sleep.

* * *

The morning sun was far too bright for Robert's liking. He'd awoken rather early, surprisingly, as he could barely remember the night before, but nevertheless hauled himself out of bed so that he could complete the task he'd traveled so far to complete.

His sister's gaze from across the breakfast table at her Eaton Square townhome was no more comforting than the glaring morning sun had been. He knew Rosamund was really not one for placating people but he had not expected her to be quite so sharp with him.

"Really, Robert," she continued, pausing to take a prim sip from her teacup, "you cannot expect me to have answers for you after waiting so long to ask for them." She replaced her cup and frowned, shaking her head in near disbelief that he'd actually come to see her.

"Yes, I know." And he did know, truly. Rosamund had called the day after Cora left Downton. She offered to try speaking with her, offered to call on their mother, and even offered to travel up to Downton immediately to help him. He had refused it all, and had refused to take her calls in the coming days and weeks as well.

"Have you seen Edith?" She inquired? "Mary or Matthew?" When he shook his head negatively to both, she sighed, pausing again. "Well I know you've not seen Mama…what about Tom and the bab—"

"—No." Robert interrupted.

"Well, Edith's seen them. She went to Liverpool a week ago for a visit. She says the little girl is doing well, she said she looks just like…" Rosamund trailed off, realizing how her words wounded him. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you sad."

Robert frowned, looking down at his plate. "I'm not sad. I—I'm rather annoyed, really. And angry that everyone seems content to see our family blown to pieces," he muttered, not even believing his own words. He knew it was him, only him that was to blame.

"Oh, you're angry alright, but not with Mary, or me, or even Cora. I think it's because the world isn't going your way. Not anymore." Rosamund reached across the table to press her hand atop his, sighing softly when he reflexively pulled away.

"_I've_ let the estate fall to pieces. It's my fault," he allowed, speaking in just a whisper.

"Oh Robert darling, you won't win like this, trying so hard to push everyone away and pretend that you're not hurt. You must try—please, speak to the girls, to Mama, and by God, please, speak to Cora." Rosamund stood and crossed the room, taking the seat beside him and waiting until he looked up at her. "Please, Robert."

"No I won't win, not if you and all of them are against me. No one wants to listen to me, not anymore at least. They want me to leave them alone."

"Robert, I'm never against you, but you've lost on this one."

Robert stood, unable to be so close to his sister. He didn't trust himself. He did not trust that he could keep his long-bottled emotions from spilling over. Seeing Rosamund was hard enough, he knew there was no way he could see the girls, even if they did want to see him. Turning around after a long pause, he collected himself enough to look back at his sister. "You know, it's funny, really. I keep forgetting she's gone. I see things in the paper that would make her laugh, I come inside to tell her that her favorite rose is in bloom, and then suddenly…suddenly I realize that my daughter is dead. My daughter is dead and my wife is gone."

"Oh, Robert." Rosamund stood and crossed the room, taking his hands in an uncharacteristic gesture of familial affection. "Say that to Cora, please."

"She didn't want to hear it from me." Releasing his hands from his sister's, he moved to leave the room. He'd traveled to see his sister, hoping she could provide him with answers. He had wanted to know where exactly Cora was, how his daughters were, and how the baby was. But standing there, he realized that he, too, was not sure he wanted to hear it. Not yet at least.

"Robert—" His sister called to him from her place rooted in the center of the dining room.

"Yes?"

"You'll lose everything. If you don't do something soon, you'll lose everything. You'll lose her."

Sighing, he turned around once more, away from Rosamund. "I have already lost everything." And with that, he strode out of the townhouse, unable to look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Cora stepped out onto the veranda of her mother's Newport house and inhaled the sweet summer air. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was already gleaming down brightly on her mother's immaculately landscaped lawn. With her mother firmly rooted in New York for the summer, by default she had become the queen of this otherworldly kingdom. It was strange, really, feeling like such an outsider in one's home country. But it was not her home—not anymore at least, and so sitting on the veranda that morning, sipping a cup of tea and admiring the lovely flowers in the gardens, Cora was still an outsider. But it was not until a maid stepped out onto the veranda with fresh tea that she was reminded of that fact.

"Mrs. uhh—I mean Lady Crawley, I have your tea," the young maid said hurriedly, blushing at her obvious confusion for British titles.

"Lady Grantham," Cora corrected kindly, nodding to the small table beside her where she wanted her tea.

The maid nodded and set the tea down before taking her leave. Cora watched the girl disappear back into the house and was instantly reminded of the scullery maid back at Downton, Daisy. She had always tried to take at least a little interest into the lives of her staff, and she had rather a soft spot for the younger maids; they reminded her of her own girls, so innocent and untouched by the sharper edges of the world. But just as the maid mistaking her name had drawn her thoughts back to the realities of her situation, thinking of her daughters did quite the same.

No longer were they the innocent, sweet girls who ambled into the library to sit on her lap or beg her to take them for a walk in the gardens. Life had changed them; it had changed them all, really. Life's cruel realities had darkened their lives considerably in the last months, a most evident fact when for the umpteenth time that hour Cora remembered that only two of her daughters were back in England waiting for her.

Nothing had turned out the way it was supposed to.

Sipping her tea, Cora closed her eyes and was immediately transported back to another time she had spent sitting on the very same veranda. Only just eighteen, her mother and father had decided a trip to London was in order. Her mother had promised her that it would be a grand adventure, that she would meet the man of her dreams and he would take care of her for the rest of her days. Opening her eyes and swallowing another sip of tea all she could taste was the bitterness of that memory and of those promises. Her mother had lied. _Everyone _had lied to her. It had been no wild, romantic adventure. It had been a life; a life so terribly far away from the place she once called home and a life she was forced to navigate entirely on her own.

Well, not entirely on her own.

He had been there.

He had always been there. At the start, he was there to take her hand and lead her around the ballroom; everyone said they made quite a handsome couple. And she believed them. And he was there standing at the altar just after she signed away her entire fortune to a pack of strangers. He had been there to hold their children, to help raise them, and to hold her and promise that he would always be there to take care of her.

He had lied too.

She couldn't drink any more of the tea. It was some horrid blend imported from New York that her mother likely thought was an authentic replica of what Cora might drink at Downton. But, no, it was a poor substitute for the tea _he _always had sent up from London because he knew it was her favorite. He had always done sweet little things like that, even when she insisted it was unnecessary.

So abandoning her tea in favor of a walk around the gardens, Cora tried desperately to pull her thoughts away from Downton and tea and him. She tried so very hard not to think of his name; the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that it provoked was tiring, and so she instead thought of him only as _he _or _him. _She had slip-ups of course, times when his name would invade her thoughts. It had happened just last night, actually.

It was the first night she had been able to find any sort of decent sleep since arriving in Newport. The house was terribly warm in the summer and her first nights were spent tossing and turning around the large bed, getting tangled up in the warm sheets. But last night had been rather peaceful. There was a cool breeze drifting in from the ocean and it wafted throughout the room. The stars were speckled brilliantly throughout the sky and Cora had even finished her dinner early enough to take a luxurious bath before retiring for the night. Sleep had claimed her quickly.

But it had not claimed her for very long.

Only a few hours into her slumber, Cora began to dream yet again. And, yet again, it was a dream about him. Perhaps it was some long-buried memory guised as a dream, for it seemed so very familiar. She was walking along the beach, hand in hand with _Robert,_ who was talking endlessly about how much he loved the ocean—and about how much he loved her. It was a simple dream, nothing particularly exciting or frightening, but she had jumped out of sleep with such a feeling of upset that she did in fact rouse herself from bed and wander down the corridor in the hopes of getting some fresh air.

She had wandered all the way down to the main entryway before realizing that going for a walk in the middle of the night, in her thin linen nightdress, no less, was a mad idea. She forced herself to walk back upstairs and get back into bed; she forced herself to close her eyes and block out the images of the dream dancing around her mind; and she forced herself to try to forget the sound of his voice ringing in her ears. Perhaps it had worked, for she woke up several hours later feeling far emptier than she had the night before.

And now, yet again, she found herself wandering around the gardens mulling over her poor night's sleep. She knew it was beginning to wear on her. She spent far less time in front of the mirror, but she could still see the dark circles painted under her eyes each time she caught a glimpse of herself. O'Brien had declined to come along with her to America, saying something about how she would prefer to live and work in England, and so that made it easier to avoid her appearance as her mother's stand-in lady's maid seemed not to care whether or not she looked like she hadn't slept in a month. O'Brien knew when she was even slightly off; she would have noticed. But O'Brien was gone too, and so she cared little about concealing the physical manifestations of her grief from a young maid that she hardly knew.

* * *

Her walk through the gardens had done little to assuage her wandering mind. She had been in Newport for nearly two weeks now, after a short interlude in London and then the tedious boat ride over, but she had found little that could actually soothe her exhausted mind.

Dinner had proved to be one of the more difficult times of day.

It occurred to her as she took her place at the head of the table that evening that she had never really eaten a meal entirely by herself. Yes there had been occasional teas and luncheons where she happened to be home alone, but during those times she would always just take her meal in the drawing room or the garden and admire the scenery, or read the newspaper sitting out from that morning's breakfast. Now in Newport she dined alone every evening. She sat at the head of the table and ate her meal in silence as the one footman in the room, the one very un-talkative footman, served her courses in slow, methodical succession.

To make yet another attempt at stopping her wandering thoughts, Cora decided to read the post whilst eating her dinner that evening. There were a few short notes from women who resided in the surrounding estates welcoming her to Newport, and one from her mother who first suggested that she book the next available passage back to Liverpool, and then noted that if she was too stubborn to do that, then perhaps she could be so kind as to call on her dear friend Mrs. Whitmore who lived across the street. Cora laughed softly; her mother had an uncanny ability for getting people to do what she wanted them to do. She knew Martha would likely telephone the next afternoon, asking if she had received the note and made plans for tea yet, and so she made a mental note to call on her mother's friend in the coming days. If Martha was willing to let her stay in the Newport house after only asking minimal questions about her plans or things back in England, Cora decided it was the least she could do to have one tea at her mother's request. And it did, after all, seem a more enticing prospect than another day cooped up in the house.

* * *

Two days later Cora arrived at Mrs. Angela Whitmore's estate for afternoon tea.

Her note to Mrs. Whitmore had received a near immediate response, in the form of a telephone call where her mother's dear friend insisted that she absolutely come to tea the very next day. Cora thought it terribly sweet, her enthusiastic invitation, and thought it even sweeter that Mrs. Whitmore had assembled what looked exactly like a proper British tea that she might be served at home on any given afternoon. Teas were not nearly as innate to American culture as they were to British; most Americans preferred a nice afternoon spent on the veranda with a glass of lemonade, so Cora appreciated the obvious effort to make her more comfortable.

She waited in the sitting room for several minutes before Mrs. Whitmore gilded into the room, making an incredibly fashionable appearance. Cora remembered the woman from her youth. Mrs. Whitmore was, aside from her own mother, one of the richest women in New York and Newport. Her family owned a handful of peach orchards in Georgia and they had risen to the upper echelons of American society a generation or two earlier. Angela Whitmore had grown up in New York, and Cora had known her children socially as well. Mrs. Whitmore was known as rather a character; the strength of her wit was matched only by the strength of the black coffee she drank every morning, and she had a deep interest in American History. Her library was one of the best stocked on the whole East Coast.

So when she sauntered into the drawing room wearing an elaborate silk dress, and grinned widely, drawling "Cora, darling" with outstretched arms, Cora was not as taken aback as she might otherwise have been.

"Mrs. Whitmore, I'm so pleased to see you," Cora replied, smiling in response as the older woman embraced her.

"Ah ah, none of that 'Mrs. Whitmore' business with me, young lady. It's Angela, dear." _Angela _kissed Cora's cheek and flounced down on the settee nearest to her, crossing her legs and leaning forward with interest as Cora sat opposite her. "Now, do tell me, Cora dear, have I recreated a proper English tea?"

Cora smiled again despite herself. She couldn't remember feeling the urge to smile quite this often in many weeks. "Yes, the tea looks just perfect," she confirmed, reaching out to grasp the delicate teapot and pour them both a cup. "Thank you so very much for having me."

"Nonsense, when Martha told me you were here I insisted. I said to her, 'Martha, you tell that darling daughter of yours to come over absolutely any time. It isn't every day I get to spend my afternoon with a real live countess.'" She chuckled at her own story and reached out for a tea biscuit, still looking intently at Cora.

Cora laughed again as Angela recounted the story, though it was a forced half-laugh she had become more familiar with as of late. She reached for a biscuit of her own, hoping to busy her hands, and averted her gaze. "Yes, well, I don't know if I'm worth such a lovely tea but I do appreciate the sentiment," Cora managed to reply after a pause.

Angela clearly sensed her discomfort and quickly steered the conversation to her own children, Melanie and Wyatt, and delved into several stories about her grandchildren as well. She had Cora laughing again, unguardedly, in no time. She was such a skilled conversationalist that Cora had nearly forgotten all about her slight embarrassment at the start of tea when they found themselves at a lull in their chat. Stirring some more sugar into her third cup of tea, Angela peered at Cora curiously, as if weighing the weight of her words, and ventured a question. "So, my dear, what brings you to Newport this summer all by yourself?"

Cora had absolutely no idea how much Angela Whitmore actually knew about her situation. Her mother had perhaps told her superficial details, though it pained Cora greatly to think of her daughter's death as "superficial," but Angela likely had no idea what specifically had brought Cora all the way back across the ocean. Cora looked up at her companion and opened her mouth to speak; she was rather surprised when no words came out. Instead, after swallowing, she found a large lump in her throat and a growing pressure in her chest that was making it harder to breathe.

"I—I…would you excuse me?" Cora muttered hurriedly as she stood, rushing out of the room and down a random hallway before a servant could so much as direct her to a washroom. She made it almost to the end of the hall before spotting the bright white tiles of a powder room and quickly entered, shutting and locking the door before leaning her back up against the wall and sliding down until she was almost kneeling on the floor.

It had happened again, the sickening, dizzying feeling that escaped from some place deep within her. She felt her face was on fire, bright red from the embarrassment of leaving a tea so abruptly, and for no discernable reason. But more than embarrassed, she was rather angry. Yes, the burning sensation that made her chest constrict so painfully did anger her, for it was yet another sign that _he _still had some sort of hold over her. It was the very same feeling she had each time she thought of her husband. Standing up, Cora took a few steps to the sink and splashed a bit of cool water across her face. She gazed up into the mirror and winced at the sight of herself: harried, red-faced and exhausted.

She was so very angry with him for making her this way.

She gripped the sink and looked away from the mirror, stewing in her own grief and upset, trying desperately not to lose control of her tenuous emotions yet again. It was a lost cause, really. Whenever she allowed herself so much as a hint of the memories, it was all over. She did not stand a chance against the waves of pain that flooded over her each and every time she thought of Downton, or Sybil, or Mary and Edith, or…Robert.

It was not supposed to be this way. Everything was so horribly wrong. She was supposed to be at home, doting over her new grandchild and giving Sybil advice on how to quite a crying baby. She was supposed to be helping Edith find her way in London and telling Mary not to over-exert herself in the first months of pregnancy. She and Robert were supposed to be happy; they were all supposed to be so terribly happy. Instead she was in a stranger's washroom having some sort of crisis and crying like a child. She wondered if it was perhaps from the pain of wishing she could go back while already knowing that she never would.

Wiping her face with a small hand towel, Cora weighed her options for a moment before ultimately deciding that she simply could not go back out and face Angela Whitmore, no matter how kind or friendly she was.

She had lived in England for a long time, after all, and expressing her innermost feelings to acquaintances was no longer second nature to her. In fact, it felt rather foreign. So to go back out to the drawing room and explain that she was incredibly sad because her beautiful, sweet, intelligent daughter was dead seemed an impossible task.

She could not go out and unravel the whole sordid tale of how she wandered around her own home like a ghost for days after the disturbing night when Sybil was taken. There was no way to adequately express the pain that coursed through her body when she stood at the funeral and realized her beautiful baby was locked up in some horrid box up on an altar filled with horrid flowers, while they all had to go on without her. It was a cruel fact of life, the way life just kept going on; it was something no parent should ever experience.

And she could not describe the anger she felt, seemingly at everything but directed most specifically at her husband. She could not sit down and sip her tea whilst explaining that for days after the funeral to even look into his eyes made her want to scream and claw at her own skin until the throbbing ache in her chest was dulled.

No one could possibly understand that she did not have a choice. She had to leave.

After Mary and Matthew left it had seemed a plausible option. But when Tom came to her and said he would be leaving too, that he would be moving to Liverpool and taking her tiny granddaughter with him, well, that made the option considerably easier to choose. Staying at Downton with him was implausible. It would have been a death sentence for them both, and she could not bear to stay and watch them both implode.

So she had left.

And now, a handful of weeks later, she found herself leaving again. Exiting the washroom as quietly as possible, Cora made her way back down the hallway and informed the nearest footman to tell Mrs. Whitmore that she was not feeling well and had to excuse herself. She once would have thought such behavior incredibly rude. Perhaps she still did. But after she left, and she stepped outside and breathed in the fresh summer air, all she could feel was a vague sense of relief that she was free.


	4. Chapter 4

Robert stayed in London for three days after meeting with his sister.

He hadn't planned to stay in the city that long. In fact, he had not planned on staying for more than just the one night. His return ticket was meant for the train that left in the afternoon on the day he saw Rosamund. But he had missed it and decided it was a sign that he was not meant to go to back to Downton yet.

He decided that, more importantly, it was a sign he should stay at the club in London and drink himself into a stupor. It had been a most glorious sign, really. For he felt no pain anymore, sitting in the club with a scotch in hand. He felt no anger and he felt no grief. He felt absolutely nothing. And it was wonderful.

He had even made a new friend.

Sunny had been staying at the club indefinitely as well, seeing as his living situation had gone from married to freshly divorced, and Robert had found his inquisitive acquaintance to be strangely comforting as they helped each other demolish bottle after bottle of expensive liquor. They could talk for hours about seemingly nothing, which was largely what it was by the ends of the nights when neither could talk without a considerable slur. But nevertheless he was glad to have Sunny's company. So when on their third night in London, just when the cigar room at the club was starting to lose its appeal, when Sunny suggested a change of scenery, Robert listened.

Sunny had been in particularly good spirits all evening. He treated Robert to three out of four rounds of scotch at the club and laughed raucously at all of his jokes—even the ones Robert knew weren't that funny. He supposed that was just what friends did, so he went along with it and hardly noticed that he was considerably more inebriated than Sunny (who had, oddly, elected to drink nothing at the club) and did not protest when Sunny insisted that Robert go back to his room for his wallet before they could go out to the "surprise location" that he insisted Robert was going to love.

* * *

It seemed as though they'd walked for hours when Sunny finally pointed at the correct street, but in the midst of the London fog at night, coupled with the haze of drink he was under, Robert could barely make out what was a foot in front of him much less a street sign on a building yards away. He remembered heading East after leaving the club, which he thought strange since he hardly ever went that way, and he remembered walking through a park and feeling slightly concerned to be carrying his wallet. But still he ambled along beside Sunny, who was still chattering on about his supposed "surprise," and explaining how glad he was that the two of them were in such similar circumstances.

He was still talking when they rounded the corner onto a tiny, cramped street that smelled particularly horrid and was quite dark as well. Robert frowned as he gazed up and looked around, watching as Sunny quickened his pace and marched determinedly toward the door marked number twenty-three. The house looked dingy and Robert wondered why Sunny was suddenly looking down at his shoes after ringing the bell, trying to surreptitiously flag Robert over as he waited for an answer. He was fiddling with his pocket watch, frustrated as the damned thing had stopped working, when Sunny finally hissed his name and he looked up—rather surprised to see a young woman dressed very strangely holding open the door and beckoning them both inside.

Dazedly, Robert followed.

He followed Sunny—who by this point was grinning manically—inside and up the rickety stairs and down a dark, poorly lit hallway. They made it all the way to the end of the hall when Robert realized the woman was no longer with them; it was Sunny who appeared to already know his way around and who was pointing at a door opposite the one he was standing in front of.

"That one's yours, old chap," he explained, reaching out to clap Robert on the shoulder.

"Mine?" Robert repeated dumbly. He felt rather dizzy and wondered if he could get a cab to take him to Grantham House. He was so very tired. So very tired of staying at the club. But before he could ask properly, Sunny interrupted his onslaught of drunken babble and instructed him to open the door and wait inside. He did as he was told, hoping that there would be a pitcher of water. He was thirsty.

The room was even darker than the hallway and Robert had to squint so that his eyes might adjust to the low lights. The small oil lamps were draped in an ugly, thick red fabric and there was a large bed in the middle of the room that was as unfortunately appointed as the rest of the decorations. It smelled of dust and rusting metal furniture. It reminded Robert of the attics of Downton, with its peeling wallpaper and worn carpets. He looked around and wondered where the bar was; Sunny had promised him that there would be more drinks here. Well, not exactly, he remembered as he sat down and rested his pounding head in his hands. Sunny had promised him…_the time of your life. Robert, you've never seen anything like this, I promise you. It's one of the finest establishments in all of London. Trust me._

Looking around the room he began to question why exactly he had trusted Sunny in the first place.

When the door clicked open a few moments later, he expected to see his friend wandering in with more scotch. It had been rather a long time since his last drink and he was beginning to feel the potency waning. But when he looked up it was not Sunny standing in the doorway; it was a woman.

She smiled at him, and for some reason beyond his comprehension, he found himself smiling back as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. She giggled when he reached out a hand to introduce himself, and she took it in hers, inspecting the gold ring on finger.

It had been a gift from Cora, the ring. They were in Italy a handful of years before and he had seen it in the window of a jewelry shop. She saw him admiring it and took him by the hand and dragged him inside before he could protest about the unnecessary expense. In her very sweet broken Italian, she brokered a deal with the jeweler all on her own and had proudly handed him the parcel after being rung up by the shopkeeper's assistant. He usually wore it only on special occasions, but had worn it every day in London as he found it more suited for city style. And he had not been able to leave it behind at Downton when he came down to stay.

But before he could tell this woman, whoever she was, about the ring she was admiring, she took a seat beside him on the edge of the bed and leaned in very close, whispering something into his ear. Robert stiffened at the woman's touch, immediately wanting to crawl backward away from her. She was being horribly informal, and though he knew it was not his place to inform her of proper etiquette, he did feel rather badly that she seemed not to know. And so he smiled again, though nervously, and asked, "what?"

His eyes fixed on her as he waited for a response. She was pretty, he noticed. She had dark brown eyes and hair tinted a similar color. Her skin was pale and her features delicate, though sitting this close meant that he could also see the hint of dark circles under her eyes, and the remnants of a bruise on her neck. He felt his hand reaching out to touch it just as she leaned in again and replied, "I said, tell me what you want." And then, without any provocation on his part, he felt her reach out and touch his leg, her fingers sliding up far more quickly than his senses could process in such a state.

He did all that he could think to do, which was to jump up as fast as possible. When he looked down and realized that his body had reacted to the unwarranted interaction, he blushed a deep crimson and began backing away from the woman who was still grinning at him. "I—I'm so sorry," he stuttered, backing up until he felt his body hit up against the door he'd entered through. "I didn't mean to…I don't know why I…" He reached up to rub a hand across his face, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. When he opened his eyes again he saw that she was standing, too, and was slowly approaching him again.

"Wait—" He held both hands up to his head and ran his fingers nervously through his hair, which was damp with perspiration. "Please, please, I don't know what you—"

"Shhh, you don't have to do anything. Just let me take care of you," the woman replied, standing before him. She took his hands again and tried to pull him back toward the bed, but he was so very dizzy it was all he could manage to stay rooted in one place. She looked at him curiously when he failed to move, and simply shrugged, reaching up instead to begin unfastening the buttons on his shirt. He tried to brush her hand away but his movements were incredibly clumsy and all he succeeded in doing was swatting at the warm air lingering between them. She took the hand he'd extended and pulled him forward again, this time more forcefully. He stumbled forward and landed on the bed with an undignified groan. He rolled over slowly, and again wondered how long it would take to find a cab, but felt himself being pulled back down. He managed to sit up and was about to try standing again but he felt her hands on him again from behind. He turned to find the woman holding his shoulders, rubbing her hands over the muscles that ran up and down his back. It felt nice and he forgot completely about locating a cab.

That is until he felt the press of her lips against his neck.

"No—no, stop," he said weakly, pushing ineffectually at her hands that had encircled him from behind and were rubbing up and down his chest. "Please, I can't. I'm married," he said, the words sounding strange as he uttered them in a rather strangled tone.

She did not seem to listen to his halfhearted pleas, and just continued kissing his neck. "It's quite alright," she murmured. "Your wife isn't here."

"No, she lives in America now," he replied softly, jerking away again when he felt her teeth graze against his earlobe. She said something else but it was lost when she pressed herself against his back again, her hands trailing lower and lower until she began to undo the clasp of his belt. He was stunned, momentarily, but knew even sunk in a bottle of scotch that he wanted her to stop. And so gathering up as much momentum as he could possibly manage, Robert lurched himself forward to a standing position, succeeding in standing upright for roughly ten seconds before vomiting all over the floor.

He knew what had happened when he looked at the mess on the floor. He knew when he looked up at the disgusted expression on the woman's face, and he suspected he had known before he even walked up the rickety staircase and followed Sunny down the hall. It had been easier to pretend he didn't know. Easier to not think himself one of those sad, pathetic men he always felt badly for when he laid in his warm bed at Downton with Cora in his arms. It was those sad men who were bald and had horrid wives that came to places like this. Not him. He never had any need to make himself aware of places like this. He felt hot tears pricking at his eyes and thought in that moment he could not possibly feel any smaller than he did.

He wanted to vomit again when he realized how long he had let it go on. Blinking, he saw that the woman was barely clothed, draped in some swath of silk that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. But she was looking at him somewhat angrily now. Of course she was. He knew now, with startling clarity, that she was angry because he was a troublesome _customer. _He reached into his pockets, still mumbling hurried apologies, and pulled out his wallet so that he could hand her a crumpled ten-pound note. She brightened considerably at this gesture and seemed instantly less upset at the mess he'd left on the floor.

She thanked him and he thought he saw a trace of sympathy in her eyes. She offered him water, help getting downstairs, and even offered to let him try again, but he shook his head to all she offered. He felt vile, absolutely disgusting, and it was all he could do not to vomit all over himself again. He stumbled out of the room before she could say anything else and he made his way carefully back down the stairs, never thinking to wait for his _friend _as he stepped back out onto the foggy London street_._

* * *

It took him several hours to make it back to the club. It was nearly five o'clock in the morning by the time he walked through the door and nodded at the few staff members who happened to be awake at that early morning hour. He had walked all the way back from the—the establishment that Sunny had brought him to. He knew he looked utterly awful, and likely smelled even worse. He felt the alcohol seeping right out of his pores and his clothes were still a mess from when he was sick. He had been sick several times along the walk back but had luckily managed to avoid getting anything else on his suit or shoes. Not that that particular achievement made him feel any less disgusted with himself.

It had been a long walk. It was surprising that he'd even made it back in the state he'd been in. But he had, and so he walked shamefully through the small building until he reached his room, closing the door behind him just as another wave of nausea hit. He made it to the washroom before retching into the toilet as he kneeled before it, clutching desperately at the sides and wishing for someone to put him out of his misery. He vomited twice more before the feeling finally subsided. It was not from the drink, not this time at least. He'd not had a drink for hours. No, this time he was nauseous with the realization of himself and the realization of just how far he'd actually fallen. Cora had been right to leave. Crawling up from the toilet to stand before the sink and mirror, he ventured a look at himself and knew she had been right to leave; he looked awful. Dark, angry circles were painted below his eyes and his face was tinted a blushed red from all the excess alcohol in his body. She had been right to leave when she did; he would have only dragged her down with him.

After staring at himself for untold minutes, finally sufficiently disturbed by the reflection looking back at him, Robert stripped off his dirty clothes and set about getting into the bathtub for a long soak. He intended to stay in the tub until he felt clean again, no matter how long it took.

In the end it had taken a considerably shorter amount of time than he thought it would to bathe and get dressed. He was surprised by how little time things took when he was sober enough to take note of details like time. After his bath he had rounded up all his belongings and stuffed them back into his small case.

It was time to go home.

It was the one thing he was certain of after watching all the water drain from the tub. He really needed to go home. London had been…more trying than he expected it to be. And though knowing that he could not handle it saddened him, he knew that once he made it home everything would be all right again. Somehow, everything would be all right again if he could just find his way home. So he closed his case and trudged out of the room without giving it a second glance. He rushed out of the club after settling his bill—an exorbitantly large bill, considering the amount of liquor he'd charged to his tab—and hailed a cab on the street outside.

He had to pay the driver extra to get where he wanted to go, but it seemed a very small price to pay when he weighed the alternatives. Well, it was a rather large price, actually, but he would have emptied the contents of his wallet if that were what it took. He sat in the back watching the scenery change from city to country and tapped his foot anxiously as he waited. Minutes passed, hours passed, and still he waited. All he could think of was home. And when the car stopped at his destination, he could not thank the man enough for his troubles. He reached into his wallet to pull out a few pounds more and then took his case and hurriedly walked on—his eyes fixed to the door in front of him.

He opened the door and smiled at the people milling about. Walking up to the counter he reached for his wallet again as the clerk greeted him and asked how he could be of service.

"Is that ship going to New York?" Robert asked, pointing out the window fixed behind the clerk that gave a direct view out to the Liverpool port. There were several steamer ships in view and hoards of people all making their way somewhere. He had pointed at the one that looked most familiar, hoping it was in fact going where he needed to go.

The man behind the counter smiled kindly but reached into his desk to procure a schedule of upcoming travel dates. "No, sir, that particular steamer is going directly to Newport, Rhode Island."

"Even better," Robert interrupted. I need to be on that ship."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that boat leaves in an hour; it's already all booked—"

"—if that ship is going to America, then I need to be on it."

"But, sir…"

The clerk trailed off as Robert held up his wallet and opened it, spilling the contents onto the counter. "I need to be on that ship," he repeated.

And very shortly, he was.

He stood on the deck and watched as the ship drew away from the docks, its horns blaring loudly in the background as people still ashore waved goodbye. He smiled, feeling the breeze of the water hitting against his face, and held tightly to the railing as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Some part of him felt more settled already, or at least more sober than he had been. And he thought, or hoped, that maybe everything would be alright again.

Because if he knew one thing for certain it was this: Cora was, as she had always been, his home.


	5. Chapter 5

Cora was sat in the drawing room with her needlework, trying to ignore the stifling summer heat. Nearly every window in the house was already open and she'd worn out her arm fanning herself with the small paper fan resting beside her. Her hair was drawn up away from her neck and she was wearing her lightest dress—though even her lightest black mourning dress was still not particularly conducive to warm weather. And though she endeavored to concentrate on her stitching rather than the tiny beads of perspiration gathering at her neck, it was undeniably a hot afternoon in Newport.

She had stayed indoors, mostly, since her tea at Mrs. Whitmore's estate. It had been embarrassing and rather upsetting to realize how difficult she still found it to go out and socialize with people. So she stayed indoors. But four days of this had worn on her and the heat was absolutely getting to be unbearable. Cora was just about to get up and ring for some fresh lemonade, and perhaps a cool cloth, when the butler, seemingly having read her mind, entered the drawing room.

But it was neither lemonade nor a cool cloth that he brought; rather, it was the announcement of a visitor waiting out in the hallway for her. Curious, Cora stood and abandoned her needlework on the settee, wandering out in the hallway to see what—or more precisely, whom—awaited her.

"_Cora, darling," _exclaimed the enthusiastic voice before she was even fully in the room. But she smiled, ever so slightly, as she turned the corner because she knew just whom that voice belonged to. And sure enough, Mrs. Whitmore was standing in the foyer wearing another very fashionable ensemble and a very wide smile.

"Hello, Mrs. Whitmore," Cora replied, reaching out to clasp her hand warmly. "I have been meaning to telephone you to apologize for my sudden departure from tea; it was terribly rude of me, and I hope we can reschedule."

"Oh, come now, there is no need to be so prim, Cora. And certainly no need to apologize." Mrs. Whitmore waved her hand passively and removed her hat, tossing it onto the side table closest to them. "But if you want to make it up to me, I know just how you might."

Cora raised her eyebrows in question. "And how might that be?"

"Come shopping with me this afternoon," she replied.

"Shopping? No I—" Cora paused, pursing her lips momentarily to gather her thoughts. "I think I would prefer to stay in," she continued.

Angela Whitmore was undeterred. "Inside? Nonsense; it is a beautiful day. Too beautiful a day for you to be sitting inside all by your lonesome, at least. Now, go get your hat and I shall meet you in the motor."

"But I—"

"I shall hear no arguments on the matter," she interrupted, pointing upstairs to where Cora's hat was bound to be. Cora watched as she smiled once more and wandered back outside, stepping into the motor to wait.

Cora, too surprised by her colorful guest to even protest, did as she was told and headed upstairs for her hat and handbag. Truth be told she was quite relieved to see Mrs. Whitmore; she'd no idea how she was going to pass another afternoon all on her own. And further, shopping did seem a more enticing prospect than sitting in the silent drawing room with her needlework all day. Perhaps some fresh air would do her good.

* * *

A short while later, Cora walked into the single dress shop in town. It had been there since she was a little girl and she had fond memories of bringing Mary in when they had visited Newport with her as a baby. It was small, but very well stocked, and if her past experiences were any indication then she was bound to leave with several bags filled to the brim with new hats and gloves and stockings.

Mrs. Whitmore glided into the room and greeted each shop worker warmly, immediately asking to see the latest styles from New York. Cora left her to it, and began wandering around the shop, fingering various silks as she passed them and holding up a few hats in front of her to inspect the detailing. There was a lilac colored gown she knew would be perfect for a summer ball in London; there were a pair of brown shoes that matched her riding habit seamlessly, but that was back at Downton; and there were tables covered in ornate scarves and brooches that, after checking the labels for confirmation, she was sure had been imported from London and Paris. Cora did not realize that before long she had walked practically to the back of the store, and came face to face with a beige colored curtain that sectioned off a particular area. Curious as to what might be stowed away from full view, Cora pulled back the curtain and peered in.

The back section of the shop was absolutely full of beautiful, very delicate underthings. Corsets were arranged on display mannequins and there were drapes of rich silks hanging from every angle. Cora walked around and gazed longingly at the beautiful things. She'd not purchased anything new for herself in months and could not help but want to try everything on. But, as she gently picked up one particular chemise—a beautiful cream color trimmed with silk ribbon and rosettes—she felt a familiar pang of upset. Setting it back down, Cora took a preemptive step backward, eyeing the lovely garment with trepidation. She had no excuse for such a frivolous expense. And, more than that, she would still be wearing black for months to come. Some flimsy undergarment—no matter how expertly crafted—was not going to make her feel any better.

Taking another step backward, her eyes still drawn to the soft fabric resting on the table, Cora nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice from behind her said, "that is such a pretty color, don't you think?"

Startled, Cora jumped and turned around more fully to face her shopping companion, who was standing right behind her with a large embellished hat and several colored scarves in her hands. Mrs. Whitmore smiled and repeated herself, gesturing with the hat toward the discarded chemise. "It's such a lovely material."

"Heavens, you gave me quite a fright," Cora allowed, removing her hand from her chest and ignoring the comment about the chemise.

"I'm sorry, dear, I noticed you wander back here and thought I'd come explore. But, as I said, that—" she paused, pointing behind Cora to the chemise again, "would look lovely on you."

Cora blushed, embarrassed to have been found looking at such nonsense. "Yes, well, I really have no need for it," she replied. And as if accentuating her point with action, she turned more fully away from the garment and looked up at Mrs. Whitmore, a slight frown etched into her brow.

"Need? Cora darling, I don't think these fashion houses make things based on what women need. They count on women to spend exorbitant amounts of money on trifles like this." She laughed, bypassing Cora to move to the table and examine the fabrics. "And besides, if we only wore what we needed, we'd all be prancing up and down Main Street in burlap sacks." She turned, holding the chemise Cora had admired in her hands. "—You should try it on, and then I can try my hat on more properly!"

Cora shook her head no, another lump pulling at her throat and threatening to spill tears. "No, I don't want to," she insisted half-heartedly.

She did want to try it on, desperately, in fact. And _that _was the problem. The soft-hued chemise was everything Cora had deemed inappropriate for herself; frivolity, indulgence, romance: all these things had conspired against her and had left her without a home and without her daughter. It was all their lifestyle had been, hadn't it? All the mad parties and clothes, carefully selecting garments and jewels that were befitting their lifestyle, it was no different than Robert insisting on a fancy doctor with a well-known name. It had all led them to the very same place of ruin. She had spent the last weeks and months convincing herself it wasn't what she wanted, not anymore, at least.

But the crux of her problem, perhaps, was that it still was.

Cora blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring unfocusedly at the floor instead of at Mrs. Whitmore who was watching her curiously, a look of concern playing at her features. "Are you quite alright, dear?" She asked. Cora nodded, reaching into her handbag for a handkerchief. She felt terribly overheated, nauseous, even.

"Yes, I'm fine," she answered simply, wiping her perspiring brow with a shaky hand.

"I didn't mean to be so insistent," Mrs. Whitmore replied carefully. "My daughter refuses to go shopping with me; she tells me I am far too pushy when it comes to purchases. If you don't want to try anything on, we could just go—"

"—No, I apologize," Cora interrupted. "It was nothing you said. I—I just don't have anything to wear it for."

"Anything to wear it for?" Mrs. Whitmore frowned, looking at the undergarment and likely wondering what deemed an occasion appropriate or not for undergarments.

Cora took in her companion's baffled expression and pursed her lips, managing a slightly deeper breath before amending, "_anyone."_ She looked up and could see the understanding flash across Mrs. Whitmore's face. "I don't have anyone to wear it for," she whispered.

Mrs. Whitmore smiled sadly at Cora and reached out to take her hand. "My dear, you needn't wear it for anyone but yourself. You deserve to be happy just as much as anyone else; make very well sure to never forget that."

Cora nodded, wiping at her eyes. "Sometimes it seems like I've forgotten everything I once knew," she explained softly. She turned and picked up the chemise, examining the lace carefully as she added, "I don't think I know how to be happy anymore. Not without—" Her fingers stilled their passes over the fabric and she paused to take another breath. "I don't know what happy is anymore."

Mrs. Whitmore, in an uncharacteristic moment of silence, simply nodded once in understanding and took the garment from Cora, leading her slowly back toward the front of the shop. "Well, I'm going to purchase this for you and you can keep it in its box until you change your mind. Because trust me, my dear, there will come a day when happiness does not seem so out of reach."

Cora did try to protest against such a large gift, but Mrs. Whitmore was having none of it. She brought their purchases up to the counter to settle the bill and only smiled warmly at Cora when she apologized for making a scene in the store. She was even more embarrassed now that it had happened both at tea and out in public. Cora forgot sometimes, though, that making a scene was slightly more acceptable in America than it was in England. And Mrs. Whitmore seemed determined to remind her of that fact when she loudly insisted that Cora was absolutely not the first shopping companion of hers to shed a few tears in the dressing room, though she was perhaps the first one to do it before trying on a stitch of clothing. Both women laughed and for the first time that day, Cora felt like herself again.

And so as the two women walked out of the shop with the intention of having tea, Cora thanked her—explicitly for the gift, but implicitly for her kindness and quiet understanding.

* * *

It was some time later when Cora returned to the house, which was already lit up for the evening. She had thoughts of forgoing dinner altogether, in favor of a long bath, but caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her way inside and decided that she really needed to start eating more. She knew the months had not been kind to her, but it was in those random moments, passing a mirror or catching her reflection in a shop window, that she was reminded of just how large a toll it all had taken on her.

And so she went upstairs to dress for dinner.

A few candles lighted her bedroom already, but upon entering she turned on the oil lamps closest to her vanity before depositing her package beside the large armoire. She had a fleeting impulse to wear the chemise under her dinner dress, but felt another slight pang of fear when she looked at the wrapped box resting inside her bag. Not yet, she was not ready just yet. So, instead, she opened the armoire and looked through her dresses whilst waiting for her maid to come up.

Most of the choices were black. They were lovely beaded ensembles with elaborate stitching and flawless workmanship, but they were still black. At the very end of the rack there were a few muted shades of gray and dark blue; they were the garments Cora had packed as an afterthought, having no idea when she might return to Downton—if ever she would. She looked at those choices for a few moments but ultimately went back to the black gowns. It was simply to soon to move from black to color.

She waited for the maid to arrive to help her slip into the black chiffon gown, and then she sat at her vanity while the young girl attempted to tame her heat-frazzled hair. She had already been in Newport for a few weeks and it had been the same young maid who attended her every morning and each night, but she was embarrassed to say she'd barely spoken a word to the girl. She was loath to even consider what the staff likely thought of her, the silent, unfeeling woman who neither spoke nor really looked at them. She wished desperately that she could explain to them how very unlike herself she had been as of late. She wished she could tell them she felt like a shell of her former self and she would never have dreamed of being so guarded with the staff at home. But of course that would be improper. So instead, she peered up at the woman standing behind her and said, "I think I'll wear the pearl necklace tonight."

"Very good, Milady," the girl replied without hesitation. She was the only member of staff who seemed undaunted by Cora's title, and the only one who had not mistakenly called her something else. The young woman met her gaze in the mirror and smiled, setting the last hairpin in place before reaching into the jewelry box for the right necklace.

"It's lovely," she said hesitantly as she strung it around Cora's neck.

Cora reached up to finger the delicate pearls and nodded, "yes, it is rather. It's one of my very favorites."

The maid smiled, seemingly pleased by her willingness to divulge even a bit of personal information or preference. "And it's in very good condition, too. Not like some of the other jewels I've seen when tending to a few of Mrs. Levinson's friends," The girl explained with a giggle. But then, very quickly remembering where she was, she quieted herself and looked back at Cora. "Is it very old, I mean?" She asked, attempting to recover a more professional conversation.

Cora smiled wistfully. "Yes, the necklace was a gift for my twenty-fifth birthday."

"A very nice gift!" The maid replied, helping Cora fasten the clasp in the back.

"Yes, well, my husband is a very nice man—"

The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. Looking bewilderedly at herself in the mirror, Cora's face blushed a deep red—whether out of anger or embarrassment, she was not entirely sure, and she stood abruptly, the necklace, still not clasped, falling right to the ground. "I'm sorry," she muttered, not able to make eye contact with the very confused maid. "Just forget the necklace. I'll go down like this."

And without another word, she did.

Cora was still flustered when she reached the bottom of the stairs, so flustered that she nearly ran into the butler who was evidently waiting to speak with her.

"Lady Grantham?" He asked, taking in her uncertain expression.

"Yes, what is it, Reeves?" She looked up, though still lost in thought, and watched as he pulled a slip of paper out from behind him.

"Mrs. Whitmore's butler telephoned while you were upstairs. He asked me to relay a message to you—" He paused, waiting for Cora's nod before continuing, "—that Mrs. Whitmore said one of her scarves must have been accidentally packaged with your purchases, as it is not in her bags from this afternoon, and would it be suitable for one of her footmen to come this evening for it?"

"Yes, that's fine. Just tell my maid to open the parcels in my bedroom and retrieve it for the footman to take," she replied, already walking past the butler and into the dining room.

Before Reeves could make any further inquiries, Cora had seated herself at the head of the table and requested that her dinner be brought in and then she be left in peace. She knew she was doing little to modify the staff's opinion of her, but she did not feel up to sitting and eating with spectators; each night she had dinner she couldn't help but imagine all the footman silently pitying her, wondering what had happened to her that she was there alone each night. She neither needed nor wanted their pity, and so she preferred them to leave her alone with her meal and her thoughts.

She made it through her soup and half of the main course before a knock at the front door drew her out of her contemplations. She had just started to feel slightly better about her unfortunate admission to the maid while dressing, and now there was yet another distraction for her to be interrupted with. She wondered why Mrs. Whitmore's footman had not simply gone to the servant's entrance for the scarf, but then chastised herself for being so snobbish. She turned her attention back to her plate, hoping that her maid had found the scarf in her parcels. She was surprised, though, when a handful of seconds later there was another knock.

It was just like her mother's staff to be unaware of the front door while tending to their own meal, she thought in annoyance. She stood, realizing that no one downstairs had heard the knock, and rang the cord on her way to the front entrance so that her maid could bring up the parcel for Mrs. Whitmore. Cora strode out to the main entrance and walked toward the door, hoping her dinner would not get cold during her absence. She could see the sun setting through the window above the door, and smiled just before opening it, thinking that perhaps a walk after dinner might be nice.

Her smile, though, was rather short-lived. For when she opened the door, it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. She felt her mouth open slightly, and then close, her hand gripping tightly to the doorknob.

"_Robert." _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Just a minor clarification that I was reminded of after reading a few reviews. Robert and Cora's individual timelines over the past few chapters have not been exactly parallel; that is to say, his trip to America did take a full week and Cora has been in Newport for several weeks already. I apologize for not being clearer; I felt the ambiguity lent itself well to the style of the chapters. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing!_

* * *

Robert expected a great many things upon his arrival in Newport. He expected to be looked at strangely when he spoke and he expected to dislike the food and weather. What he did not expect, however, was to be greeted with the slamming of a door. And as Robert replayed the events of the evening over again in his mind, all he could do was fight the urge to seek out a dark tavern and a bottomless glass of scotch. He knew she was mad. Pacing the threadbare carpet in his small room at the inn, he tried desperately to clear his mind—through means other than liquor.

Yes, she was angry. She had a right to be. And he'd not expected a warm welcome, exactly. But he thought that, as they once had been, that Cora would feel similarly to him, that the time apart would have begun to wear on her the way it had worn on him. And when he saw her at the front door, he could swear it to be true. He knew Cora, no matter how much time they spent apart. He recognized the dark circles painted under her eyes; for they were the very same that graced her delicate features when the girls were young, and in darker times, too, like when the war began. And the way her dress hung on her, he knew she hadn't been eating. Not eating well, at least. She was a sketch, a poor representation of his Cora, and it made his insides burn to know that he was the cause of her pain.

It was the first night in a very long time that he fought the urge to drink and won. Instead of drowning his sorrows, his fears, he thought perhaps he could bury them with sleep. And so he pulled the thin blanket over himself after dressing for bed and closed his eyes, praying for sleep to claim him.

Nothing, it seemed, was going to come easy for him, though. He tossed and turned for some time with thoughts of Cora flittering in and out of his mind. He thought of her face, the shock that had been drawn across her features when they locked eyes for the first time in over a month. And he thought of how badly he had wanted to take her into his arms, then drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. But before so much as a single word could be purged from him, she'd slammed the door.

Well, _slammed _was perhaps an embellishment. He wished that she had slammed the door. Cora had only looked at him, her mouth opening and closing ineffectually as she likely fought the urge to shout at him, before taking a single step forward and closing the door very gently. He'd watched through the glass window as she walked back down the hallway and turned to go up the stairs, never once looking back at him. He had considered going in after her, begging and shouting his own piece until she saw reason, but he knew that if he pushed her she was likely to break.

And he'd already broken her one too many times.

He closed his eyes again, but memories of the last time they'd spoken, the last time he'd pushed her, had already flooded his senses…

_He'd spent the evening in the library—alone—drinking himself into a mind numbing stupor. It made the pain just a bit easier to bear, so long as he did not stop drinking. It had been days, over a week, though he'd really lost count, and he was tired of sleeping in his dressing room. He was tired of everyone glaring at him and whispering when he left the room and he was tired of being shut out of the life he once knew so very well. _

_And so he'd walked upstairs, scotch in hand, in the direction of Cora's bedroom. He made sure to rid himself of the glass before entering—he was cognizant enough to do that much, and entered the room after the briefest of knocks. Cora was already in bed, reading something, and did not even look up at him. It made him feel so very insignificant. She made him feel like the most awful person on the planet. _

_But still, he tried, muttering, albeit with a slur, "I thought I'd move back in here tonight, if you'll have me." He'd waited for her to look up, but again was left waiting. _

"_Not yet, I think I'd rather sleep alone for a while yet," was her response, and it made him clench his fists in upset. It had already been a while; he was tired of waiting. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was. _

_But he was_ _defeated, and so he replied accordingly, "well if you're sure."_

"_I'm sure."  
_

_All he wanted was for her to understand that he was hurt too. He missed her too, and he would have given anything to have her back. He tried once more, in little more than a whisper, "Cora—" but was rebuffed before he could even take a step toward her. _

"_Let's not go through it all again."_

_It was so easy, it seemed, for her to dismiss him. She'd not looked up at him once, and though he tried desperately to keep hold of his growing anger, he felt it quickly rising to the surface. He protested, muttering, "but I'm not arguing," though she seemed not to hear that either. _

_He had no other choice. All he wanted was for her to look at him. And so he took a step forward and, with a great swipe of his hand, knocked her bedside lamp right off the table. Cora had gasped, jolting up out of bed with a look of fury aimed right at him. He'd gotten what he wanted—her attention and her eyes. But it seemed hollow, and he wanted more. So he began to shout; mostly unintelligible, slurred words, he began pacing the room angrily as Cora stood silently and looked on. _

_When he finally did pause, both out of breath and vaguely curious as to what she would say, she only shook her head—as if she pitied him—and crawled back into bed. She sighed ever so slightly, and said in a low voice, "you believed Tapsell because he's knighted and fashionable. You let all that nonsense weigh against saving our daughter's life, which is what I find so very hard to forgive. And now, I want you to leave my room." _

_He should have left. Even then he knew it. But he'd only bounded toward the bed, ripping the covers off in a mad frenzy, before shouting "you've no right to be angry with me," at his wife. _

_She'd looked bewildered for a moment, and frightened. But she had stood once more and looked up at him, her fists balled up at her sides. She muttered, "you're drunk," and rolled her eyes. "You're always drunk," she repeated. "It's a wonder you even found your way up here. Why not stumble downstairs and find some maid to amuse yourself with instead?" _

_Her words had the desired effect. He'd only seen red, not the fear in Cora's eyes or the way she bit her lip to stave off inevitable tears. He'd practically spat at her, "you disgust me—" before raising his hand with the intention of striking her. _

_He had stopped himself, oh how he would thank God for that in the coming weeks, just before his palm made contact with her cheek. He was not that man, that person standing before her, and yet he was. Nearly slapping her had not been enough to draw him out of his rage, though, for he continued on with his rant, gesticulating wildly as she stood before him, clutching at the mattress behind her. His words were angry, a haze of grief and pain, but most of all angry. He realized little of what he shouted until it was out of his mouth, for if he had any inclination he would have tried to stop himself. He would have tried to stop before shouting, "—you disgust me; I look at you and all I see is Sybil. If I had my way you would be anywhere but here. You don't belong here," he'd hissed, "you never did." _

_And then, he was satisfied. He had never seen such a range of emotions flash across someone's face. Cora had always been expressive, but this had been a true victory. Or at least it felt that way in the moment. He'd smiled at her—or sneered, perhaps—and trudged out of the room, feeling he'd won some sort of prize, feeling that he had finally made his presence known again. _

_In the morning he had woken with a vague sense of foreboding, remembering with stark clarity what he had done. And he had been victorious, for there was a prize waiting for him when he burst through the dressing room door to face his wife._

_Emptiness. _

_She was gone._

_He'd had his way and she was gone._

* * *

Only a few miles away from the small inn on Main Street, another Crawley lay awake in bed unable to sleep. She was not quite sure why she'd even gone to bed, for sleep seemed the absolute last thing she might be able to do that evening.

She was angry.

In a way she expected that he might eventually come to America with the intention of seeing her. Though she had not expected it to be so soon, she did know that Robert would never be willing to just let her go without making some sort of attempt. It would look terrible in the public eye if it were found out that he'd let her go without even lifting a finger. So she expected him to come eventually. But not tonight, she had not been prepared to see him in the middle of her dinner. And she had most certainly not been prepared to be filled with such a sense of relief that she'd nearly burst into tears.

He looked well.

Well—he looked better than he had before she left for America, at least. His eyes were clear of drink and his suit was pressed. He smelled of the cologne she'd bought him for Christmas and he did not look to be hurt in any physical manner.

She had been so relieved.

When she left Downton that rainy, foggy, morning over a month before, she wondered if she would ever see her husband again. Her husband the way he had been before…before Sybil's death. She feared he was lost forever to her, and she would not have been entirely surprised if she had been notified of some horrible accident, no doubt fueled by scotch. For the first few days after she'd left Downton she dreaded the sound of the telephone; she thought it would be Edith, Isobel, or perhaps even the police ringing to inform her that he had fallen down the stairs or simply drowned in a puddle of liquor.

She'd been riddled with guilt to even think of it, but more so because she hoped for it. Perhaps it would end things; it would make her choices easier. There would be no goodbyes, and there would be no regrets. Only the finality that death carried with it.

And she hated herself for wanting it.

She made excuses and told herself that she did not love him anymore. She tried to convince herself that his words did not matter and that he could not hurt her with even the most barbarous of tongues. But it was a lie, for if his cruel, cold words had not mattered then she could have remained at Downton and simply avoided him. She could have stayed and ruled the house she had worked so hard at making a home. But his words did matter, and they coursed through her every minute of every day. They made her cry and they made her sick to her stomach. The visceral reaction only served to prove that he was right; she did not belong there anymore. Or, at least, she could not be there anymore.

So she'd left for London and then New York, followed soon after by Newport. It had been a blur, a blessed blur of silence and travel and strangers all around her. It had made it easier to forget all she'd left behind.

But when he'd knocked on the front door, and stood before her, he made it impossible to forget. And so she lay awake in bed, unable to sleep.

Cora managed a few hours of elusive sleep before surrendering to the fact that a long night's sleep was simply not meant to be. She woke just before dawn—after having woken several times already—and was able to watch the sunrise from the large window in her bedroom. It looked to be another beautiful morning.

When she woke her first thoughts were of telephoning her mother in New York and telling her to ready a room. It was childish, perhaps, to plan an escape to one's parent's house, but it seemed the easiest course of action and the only way to avoid any more pain. But then, as she pulled herself from bed and sat in the window seat, her dressing gown draped loosely around her slight form, she ultimately decided against it.

She knew her husband. And she knew there was little that upset him more than being ignored. Having a door closed in his face had likely done little to improve his mood and if she were pressed to make a bet, she would bet that he had boarded a ship back to Liverpool that morning. Robert liked what he understood. He no longer understood her, nor would he understand her aversion to speaking with him. And when things stopped going Robert's way, he did not cope particularly well. So, yes, she would wager him back on a ship and already drafting his letter to Murray, telling him that he wanted a divorce.

* * *

The sunrise had delivered on its promise with the loveliest of mornings. Cora usually spent her early hours in the drawing room with the newspaper and her breakfast, but one glimpse at the brilliant blue sky had convinced her that breakfast on the veranda was absolutely necessary.

She felt quite scandalous perched on the outdoor settee in her lightest dress and her hair wound in a loose braid. It had been a long time since she arrived downstairs after taking such minimal care to dress, but it felt oddly freeing to just be _Cora, _sitting and eating her breakfast, rather than the Countess of Grantham dressed and ready to take on the running of an estate. It was quiet and simple and just what she wanted out of her morning.

But as Chaucer so aptly noted, all good things apparently had their end.

Cora was not yet into her second cup of tea when, like an apparition from one of her dreams, Robert came ambling up the long driveway clutching what looked like a bunch of flowers in one hand. And, yes, as he approached it became clear that it was in fact a bunch of flowers, but not the sort he'd given her over the years. These flowers were unkempt, overgrown and painted the most brilliant hues. She recognized them as the wildflowers that grew along the road leading from the house into town. And the were undoubtedly picked from there, as her husband's hands were brushed with dirt and she could see the lightest markings of grass on the knees of his suit.

He did not look at her until he reached the bottom step leading up to the veranda. But when he did, she was taken aback by how very much he looked like her Robert. He cleared his throat and extended the arm holding the flowers, saying, "you look very nice this morning," in a quiet voice.

Cora opened her mouth and then closed it, in an almost comical repetition of her actions the night before. "I—" She blanched, her eyes drawn to the flowers and the way his hand was curled tightly around the stems, as if letting even one bloom drop would ruin the whole bouquet. But it was not the flowers she could think of when she saw his hand gripped tightly like that. All she could think of, no matter how desperately she wished to forget it, was how it mirrored his gesture from their last real conversation, the night before she had left Downton.

And it frightened her.

He was still holding the flowers out when she finally stood and looked at him, albeit gently, and replied, "don't flirt with me, Robert. Not now."

His extended arm immediately dropped, his face falling in quick succession as well. He nodded, ever so slightly in understanding, and reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief so that he could wipe his perspiring brow. "I'm sorry," he managed.

And she knew how sorry he was. She could see it in each and every flower that he had picked for her; she could see it in the way he perspired after walking all the way to the house from town; and she could see it in his eyes, and in the way his shoulders—usually so broad and proud—curved forward in defeat. Looking at him again she saw that it was not her Robert standing before her, but perhaps someone else who she had yet to fully understand.

It seemed there was nothing to say and everything to say. There were so many questions she had and so many things she wanted to tell him. But she did not trust him; she did not trust that he would not hurt her again. And more than that, she did not trust herself. For she knew if he took one step closer, or said one more kind word to her, she was likely to throw herself into his arms and never let go.

"Water," she said finally. And when he looked up at her in question, the flowers still hanging loosely in his grasp, she nodded toward the front door. "I'll have a maid bring you out some water."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already turned around and headed back inside. And if he wondered whether or not to follow her in, that answer became very clear when, once again, she closed the door behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

Cora watched idly as Mrs. Whitmore poured them both a cup of tea. She was, yet again, glad of the distraction but when it came time to put the idea to practice, Cora found that it was actually much harder to distract herself than she hoped it would be. She had spent much of the day inside; going out seemed dangerous, as Robert was apparently staying in town and she had no idea where or when she might bump into him. And she'd not gone back outside after sending a maid out with water for him. She couldn't bear to look at him standing there, his drooping wildflowers in hand, with the deep sadness she'd come to recognize in his eyes.

She wanted so much to make it better, to make _him_ better, and it wasn't good for her. So she stayed inside, sequestering herself in her bedroom where she could peer out the window and watch as he paced the front drive, glass of water in hand, for several minutes before leaving the flowers on the front step and walking down the drive and away from the house.

She hadn't looked back when she turned from him and went inside. But he had; on his way back down the drive, he'd turned back and looked up, spotting her almost immediately in the bedroom window. He nodded at her, almost imperceptibly, and continued on his way.

All she wanted to do was curl up into bed and shut out the world.

That lasted for several hours, at least until the stifling heat from outside began to radiate into the bedroom and draw her from her nest of blankets. No sooner had she made her way downstairs, did one of the footmen approach her with a telephone message from Mrs. Whitmore inviting her for afternoon tea. She was in no mood for tea, was unsure if she could even stomach it, really, but Cora knew that if she stayed in the house much longer she would likely go mad.

And so off to tea she went.

* * *

Mrs. Whitmore was an excellent conversationalist. Cora needed little of her carefully polished English tea-wit when chatting with Angela Whitmore, for, more often than not, she was far too excited to tell Cora about the latest gossip in town to even question the somber expression on her guest's face. Cora knew she was likely being polite. If Mrs. Whitmore was a friend—or even acquaintance—of her mother's, she undoubtedly knew all about why Cora was in America without her family. Martha, for all her virtues, found it helpful to discuss personal information with anyone willing to listen and she enjoyed discussing the trials and tribulations of her well-married Countess daughter. When she was young, Cora hadn't minded playing the part of her mother's show pony; in a way she felt proud to be such a source of excitement and fascination to her mother's friends. But as she grew, it became bothersome. And now, well, now it was just downright upsetting. She wanted the details of her life to remain private. But just as they were all over London, they were just as certain to be circulating the New York gossip circles as well.

Cora took a sip of her tea and looked absentmindedly out the window as Mrs. Whitmore continued on about how her gardener had most rudely cut her favorite alstroemeria far too short that morning. Cora nodded every so often and hummed in agreement every few moments, but did not realize how very much she was actually drifting off. That is until a sharp _"Cora?" _drew her out of her musings.

Cora looked up to see Mrs. Whitmore staring across the table on the veranda curiously at her, one eyebrow arched up with suspicion. "Cora, are you quite alright?" She repeated, cocking her head to the side.

When Cora nodded and took another sip of her tea, replying, "yes, of course. Perfectly fine," though, Mrs. Whitmore only released a soft sigh and set her delicate teacup back down onto its saucer.

"Might you take a walk with me around the gardens, my dear?" Mrs. Whitmore stood, careful not to ruffle her delicate gown, and nodded out toward the vast, lush landscape just beyond her veranda. Cora smiled half-heartedly in agreement and set her own teacup down, standing and extending an arm to Mrs. Whitmore as the two descended in the direction of the garden path.

"You have lovely gardens," Cora mused as the two women walked through the well-manicured paths lined with exquisite blooms and decorative grasses. The flowers were more colorful than the ones back at home; Downton's gardeners were under strict orders not to plant or cultivate anything too "daring," as Violet put it. So, rather unsurprisingly, the gardens were full of roses and violets as opposed to the more varied choices in Mrs. Whitmore's garden.

Mrs. Whitmore, who smiled in agreement, pointed out a few of her favorite flowers but was largely silent until the two reached a clearing about midway through the foliage. And, leading her to a small bench made of iron and painted white, she sat and looked at Cora with an appraising gaze. "You remind me a bit of myself, you know," Mrs. Whitmore explained as she dabbed at her brow with a lace handkerchief.

"Do I?" Cora replied. Cora was nothing if not polite, but she did fail to see any great similarity between herself and the woman beside her who seemed so terribly confident in every single situation she found herself in.

"It's the way you pretend not to be upset, I think," she replied plainly, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly with concern. "To someone who doesn't know you, they'd never guess. But—" She paused, pursing her lips and smiling sadly at Cora, "you're not perfectly alright, are you?"

"I—yes, yes I am," Cora answered, looking down to inspect a slight run in the lace of her glove. Perhaps she had been in England for too long; perhaps it had dulled her emotional responses. Or perhaps there had been just so much trauma thrown at her that it no longer mattered. Maybe she was perfectly all right; maybe this was how she was meant to feel now. But, she wondered with a pang of fear, could she really be meant to feel nothing at all for the rest of her life?

Mrs. Whitmore spoke again, gazing off into the distance as if she had just grasped onto some far away memory. "The year your mother brought you off to London, I remember being quite jealous of her. My husband had not yet experienced the success your father did and so I couldn't afford to bring my own daughter. I remember thinking what a marvelous adventure it would be. And when I would see your mother after the fact, she was so proud of what you had achieved—"

"—I didn't achieve anything," Cora interrupted quietly. "I simply married well."

"Yes, well, your mother spoke of nothing but your marriage; she told us all of how beautiful you looked in your wedding gown and how grand your new home was," Mrs. Whitmore continued, "but I remember wondering how anyone could be happy with just a wedding gown and a lovely house. I wondered if it could ever be worth it. And then I saw you a few years later when you were in Newport for the summer with your husband and young daughter. You were so happy, and I realized that happiness simply comes in different packages for different people."

Cora looked back up at Mrs. Whitmore and bit the edge of her lip, trying to stave off her quivering chin and familiar feelings of upset. "Why are you telling me this?" She asked, if not a bit bluntly.

She only smiled, and patted Cora's hand once more. "I have known your mother for many, many years. Our children grew up together and in many ways our lives have been quite similar. But I fear, at times, Martha can be a bit too pragmatic for her own good," Mrs. Whitmore explained, chuckling. "My dear, it is alright to speak of your feelings and to be less than perfectly fine. We are all less than perfectly fine, though most of us are loath to admit it. And I understand, as your mother does too, what it is like to lose someone you love—" She paused as Cora's eyes traveled downward yet again, before adding, "no matter how we lose them, it hurts all the same." And with that, Cora began to cry, unreservedly, as Mrs. Whitmore handed her a clean handkerchief with which to wipe her eyes.

For she knew, in that moment, that she _had _lost Robert. And it did hurt; it hurt terribly, terribly much.

Some time later, once Cora had sufficiently composed herself and Mrs. Whitmore had inspected her butchered patch of alstroemeria, the two women approached the veranda where they were set to part for the afternoon. Cora, thanking her host for her kind words and apologized, yet again, for behaving so inappropriately (an apology which Mrs. Whitmore swiftly rebuffed). So, she simply clasped her hands and smiled as she waited for the motor to be brought around.

"So, my dear, will you be at the party this Friday?"Mrs. Whitmore asked, glancing down the drive as the motor approached.

Cora blanched. If she were perfectly honest, she had forgotten all about the invitation to the big summer fete. Mrs. Whitmore had invited her during their first tea together, for it was Mrs. Whitmore's daughter Melanie and her husband who were hosting the grand event, but she had not given it much thought. Closing her eyes in embarrassment, Cora shook her head slightly and replied, "I'm not really going out to those sorts of things at the moment."

Undaunted, Mrs. Whitmore replied, "a proper American event might blow some of those cobwebs away, Cora dear. I think I have even persuaded your mother to travel down for the weekend."

"It's very kind of you to ask, but I—you see, I'm afraid I would only bring my troubles with me," Cora frowned.

Mrs. Whitmore nodded in understanding and ascended the stairs to the front entrance, adding just before she opened the door "But if you change your mind, you are very welcome to come. At some point, Cora dear, we must all learn how to live again." And with that, she nodded and disappeared behind the door.

* * *

Robert realized after a very hot and dust filled walk back to the inn that he was rather short on supplies. That is to say, he had unfortunately sweated through his last clean shirt. It was not entirely surprising, as his decision to go straight to Liverpool without taking a full case from home had been rather impromptu, but at some point he had forgotten that he would need to replenish the supply of undergarments, shirts and various other odds and ends he was missing.

He did not particularly feel like trudging further into town to visit the single tailor, however, he found that he had absolutely nothing else left in his small bag, save for a very small bottle of scotch that was still unopened. So, with only slight trepidation about venturing out again—after a most unsuccessful morning—Robert exited the inn and walked in the direction he had been instructed.

He had asked the man at the inn desk about the quickest way to go, and the directions had seemed clear enough. However, somewhere between the second left and third right he was supposed to take, Robert most unfortunately found himself walking back in the direction of the beach. And more worryingly, in the direction of the Levinson Compound.

Robert was no geographer, certainly, but Newport held special memories, and so he could not help but remember the quiet back roads that lead to long meandering sand paths and then cut through the back of Martha's estate. He'd walked the very same paths with Cora, and even Mary, many times. It had been so very long ago and so much had changed. Such was the nature of life, he supposed, but he still felt a bit breathless all the same. It was still so beautiful.

And, when he reached the crest of the hill and looked down at the beautiful ocean below, a stab of sadness cut right through him. It was Cora who had brought him to the bluff and showed him the ocean. And it was Cora whose hand he held as they strolled along the shore. But now it was only he who stood, gazing down, and it was nothing like the memories he held so dearly.

But he had walked all that way—albeit accidentally—and so he felt some obligation to at least walk down to the water for a few moments. He removed his shoes carefully and ambled down the hill and onto the beach. It was blissfully quiet save for the sound of breaking waves, and he wished he could stay there forever.

He continued down the beach a way until he looked to his left and could see the very top of the estate in the distance. It was set back from the water, and required a walk down the paths from which he'd just come, but the peaks of the roof could still be seen from where he stood. He turned, settling himself down into the sand for a moment, and gazed at the large, imposing home. It was not nearly the size of Downton, but was still expansive and lovely in its own unique way. He had countless memories of the house—almost every one including his wife—and had a fleeting pang of upset when he remembered that he would be walking back to the inn, rather than the house.

All he really wanted was to get back on a ship and go back to Downton. He knew he did not belong here. But, going back to Downton was no solution either. For, unless Cora was there, he did not belong at Downton either.

He would be lying if he denied walking down to the shipyard that morning to see if he could book a ticked back to England. After Cora so resolutely denied him, he thought perhaps it would be best to give her what she wanted. And what she wanted, it seemed, was for him to stay away from her. He knew Murray could draw up papers to make their separation more legitimate, or, legally binding. He hated thinking of it as legitimate, because there was nothing natural about he and Cora being torn apart so brutally. But, he would be lying again if he said he had not met with Murray to discuss their options, and to find out just how intensive it would be to break the bonds that had bound them for over thirty years.

It turned out that it would be rather simple.

Disturbingly, it would take little more than a few signatures to dismantle the family they had created and to destroy the relationship that they had grown from little more than nothing. They had been children when they married, children with no concept of what it meant to be someone's partner and to be someone else's entire world. It took them years to understand it fully and years to create their family. Their children, all four of them, had been created from love. Though somehow, through circumstances that seemed cruel and so far beyond their control, they had lost two, their memories still remained as a mark on their family and even more of a reminder of what he had lost when Cora left. What had once been so wholly perfect now was scattered across thousands of miles. Looking up at the great Newport house that had once brought them all such joy, he wondered if it was possible to repair something so broken.

He feared, as he stood and brushed the sand off his clothes, that it was all simply too far-gone. And so he chanced one last look at the house, still wondering if she was inside or not, and turned away, intent to make his way back into town and to the tailor.

* * *

Robert entered the small shop and looked around as he removed his hat. It had been a rather long walk back to the center of town, but there had been a nice breeze so he was perspiring far less than he had been when he called on Cora earlier in the day. He supposed that was some sort of consolation prize, for at least he would not look an utter mess in public for the second time in one day.

He realized something strange as he peered around the shop; he'd been wearing his black suit for so long now he sometime forgot that clothing did in fact still come in other colors. There were tables lined with silk ties and handkerchiefs and rack after rack of cotton suits all perfect for summer. He smiled and greeted the tailor who came out to greet him and allowed himself to be led to the back room for some measurements to be taken.

It was quiet, mostly, and Robert seemed to have the shop all to himself as the man took his measurements and showed him swatches of fabrics in varying colors and textures. He chose muted grey and black shades, nothing that would be remotely summer like but would be appropriate for mourning. Robert had not been to the tailor in several years, as his tailors in Ripon and London both kept his measurements on hand; Cora would simply telephone either of the establishments when she decided he needed new things. So, he felt slightly out of practice when, just as he was stripped down to his underthings, another man strolled past and was led to the adjoining room. He was tempted, just for a moment, to use his title and ask—or, well, demand—a more private room, but he nearly winced when he imagined what Cora would say if she heard him do such a shallow thing. She may not have been there, but she _was_ there, somehow, in the back of his mind, and he could not bear to disappoint her again. So he remained quiet as the man finished his work and left to go make a few notes at the front of the shop.

After redressing himself, a task he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with, as he had no valet, Robert decided to wander back to the front of the shop so that he could at the very least purchase some undergarments and handkerchiefs to take with him while he waited for his new suits to be cut. But, just as he exited the small changing area, he bumped right into the man who'd entered after him, and knocked several items right out of the gentleman's grasp.

Robert, again realizing he had no one with him to help, immediately kneeled down to help pick up the various ties scattered across the floor. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his face reddening as he stood and handed the man back his garments. Looking up, he noticed the man's amused expression and added an "I apologize," to his muttered profanities.

The gentleman only smiled and extended his hand after depositing the rumpled garments onto the nearest table. "No harm done. Grant Harris," he introduced, shaking Robert's hand firmly.

Robert smiled, though still ruffled, and replied, "Lord Gr—Robert Crawley." He had learned in a very short time around Newport that his title was not as awe inducing as it was in England. No one seemed to know the difference between a lord and a duke and when he introduced himself as such, he was met with blank stares and the vague feeling that people though him snobbish for even mentioning what seemed to them a trifling thing.

But again, the man chuckled animatedly and replied, "Lord? Unless you were about to let another profanity slip, I do believe you outrank me, as I am simply 'Mister' Grant Harris. Though, I am named after the former President Grant," he added.

Robert looked sheepish but nodded slightly and the overtly friendly man. "Yes, er—Lord Grantham. It's a family title; I am an earl…or, at least I am in England. Now I am not certain what I am," Robert replied in jest, though the truth of the statement was not lost on him.

Grant laughed as the two men reentered the front of the store and made their way to where the tailor was still looking studiously at his small notepad. "So, what brings you to Newport, Lord Grantham?"

Robert noted that the man used his proper title without a trace of irony, and seemed genuinely interested in their conversation. It was an odd feeling, as it had been a rather long time since he'd conversed with anyone who actually wanted to speak to him, and so he found himself slightly less guarded than he otherwise might be. Robert cleared his throat and replied, "I am here on a matter of business; though I fear it has proved more trying than I hoped." Slightly less guarded, yes, however Robert was still not about to explain to the gentleman that he was there to win back the wife who had left him.

Grant nodded, fishing in his pocket for his wallet to pay for his items, and explained, "I am actually from New York but my wife's family has a place down here. We spend the summers here, for the most part. Great beaches. And parties too—" And, then, looking up from his wallet as if an idea had struck him, he added, "Might you still be in town this Friday evening?"

"Friday?" Robert asked.

"Yes," Grant confirmed, pulling out several bills from his wallet as the tailor rang up his purchases. "My wife is throwing a party for my birthday, actually," he laughed. "You should come. I know she's invited the whole town; you can experience some real American charm before sailing back across the pond."

Robert, extracting his own wallet from his jacket pocket, smiled kindly but hesitated, "I do appreciate the invitation but I would not want to intrude." He felt it the most polite response to an invitation from someone he hardly knew, though he did have a fleeting urge to attend—he had only been in Newport for a limited time but already found it difficult to fill his days; and he had no idea how long it would be before Cora spoke to him again, if ever she did.

"I understand," Grant replied. "But, if you change your mind, please do come—it's going to be at my mother in law's estate; right on the water, with plenty of people and plenty of drinks," he grinned. And, punctuating his invitation with action, he drew a slip of paper from his wallet and borrowed the pencil resting beside the register to write down the address and time. "I do hope you come," he smiled, handing the paper to Robert, "my wife would be terribly impressed if she learned I made friends with British royalty."

Robert chuckled and tucked the slip into his own wallet, extending his hand to Grant Harris once more. "I will consider it," he replied, "it was nice to meet you."

"And you as well," Grant nodded. Picking up his parcels from the counter and bidding the tailor a good afternoon, he waved at Robert and exited the shop.

Robert, who watched his new acquaintance leave, only thought about the invitation for another half second before turning to the tailor and asking, "might you be able to get a proper dress coat in order by Friday evening?"

* * *

_A/N: So this chapter ends what I am tentatively grouping together as the "first section" of this story. It's going to shift into more dialogue and character interactions in the coming chapters! _


	8. Chapter 8

Robert wondered, as he ambled up the drive to the Levinson house, if he was perhaps a glutton for punishment? He was wearing a new suit that had just been delivered from the tailor and had even allowed the town barber to trim his hair. He felt better than he had in ages; he was rather surprised to find just how much some fresh clothes and a haircut could do to improve his mood. But when it came down to it, when it came down to him walking up the gravel drive, none of that mattered; he still knew that Cora would likely be displeased to see him.

And that was really all that mattered.

He reached the steps just outside the main entryway and halted, his plan suddenly seeming far less ideal than it had in his room at the inn or even on the walk over. She wasn't about to fling herself into his arms and beg him to return home; he needed to stop pretending that she might do just that. It was rather tiring, building himself up for such great disappointment.

He had little time to muse on the subject any further, though, for just as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, already quite hot from the walk over, the sound of a door opening drew him out of his thoughts. Raising his eyes, he met the bewildered expression of his wife, who looked absolutely stunning. She was wearing a beaded black dress and though he always found black a horrid color for her to wear—Cora, he thought, should wear only the loveliest, brightest colors—she looked utterly beautiful.

"What are you doing here?" was her greeting, and she stepped forward, as if she would walk down the stairs to meet him, but paused abruptly, clearly having thought better of it.

He knew it was rather a long shot. After seeing Cora at the start of the week, he knew. But he had spent his time in Newport mulling over his options and had decided that his invitation to the Harris' party would also be a particularly good opportunity to see his wife. Newport was a small town; it had been easy to ask around and find out that Cora had in fact confirmed her attendance. And that had made the decision to attend absolute.

He smiled at her, taking the step she had paused at and drew closer to her, replying, "I wondered if I might escort you to the party."

He watched the confusion flash across her face. "You what?" She frowned but despite her dubiousness, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stepped down the three stairs that separated them.

And then, just like that, he was truly face to face with his wife for the first time in over a month.

"Escort you…the party," he muttered in response. Any coherent thoughts he may have had only moments before had vanished, leaving in their wake the vague realization that Cora was the only woman who could eternally take his breath away.

She was frowning at him, angrily. That was the first thing he noticed when he looked up.

"Escort me to the party," she repeated, though not in question, and peered at him.

"Yes, to the Harris' party? I thought you were going—" He began, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"You walked all the way here to escort me to the party? How did you know that I was…how do you even know the Harris'…" she paused, bringing a hand up to her forehead, as if even his presence caused her pain. "Where is your car, then?" She looked up curiously, her eyebrows raised.

"My car?" It was his turn to look confused, and he shook his head slightly, not understanding her question.

Cora cocked her head at him, raising her brow even higher. "You came here with the intention to escort me to a party, so, where is your car?"

"I don't have a car," he replied, almost incredulously. He wondered, yet again, if he was simply so fond of punishment that he sought it out? For, clearly, he repeatedly put himself in losing situations that could only end very, very badly.

"If you've not brought a car, how do you plan to escort me?" Cora asked. She did not seem particularly interested in his answer, though, as she walked past him and gestured at her own chauffeur who had parked her car at the other end of the circular drive.

Undeterred, Robert followed after her, replying, "you have a car."

"Yes, I do," Cora held out a hand, motioning at the approaching car, and then turned back to him. "What of it?"

"I could escort you in your car," Robert answered, pausing for a moment before adding, "if you wanted me to, that is."

Cora had opened her mouth to reply, likely to rebuff him once more, but paused, biting down on her lip, at his last words. She stood rooted in place as the chauffeur exited the vehicle and walked around to the door and opened it for her. She took a step toward the door but then looked back. "You may ride with me," she murmured.

He grinned, practically bounding toward the motor— _"but you may not escort me," _was Cora's caveat, said in such a stern voice that he knew not to press his luck. He nodded, solemnly, and waited patiently as Cora helped herself into the motor, then slid in after her, saying a silent prayer for a peaceful ride.

The silence did last momentarily, as Cora adjusted herself and smoothed out her dress. But just as quickly as it began, the silence was broken by her voice, soft but insistent. "Why did you come?" She asked, turning to face him.

Robert shrugged, not wanting to give the wrong answer and not knowing exactly what the right one could be. "I didn't want you to have to attend the party alone," he answered, after a pause.

Cora shook her head, turning to look out the window. "That is not what I meant; you know that is not what I mean."

Yes, he knew. Of course he knew. But how—how could he possibly explain to her the events of the past month without so much as a moment of small talk? It seemed too great a task, to explain the sleepless nights, the drinking, each and every misstep he had taken since her departure. All he wanted was to edge closer to her and thread his fingers through hers. It seemed such a small thing, once, but now he would give everything he had just to hold her hand for a moment.

He was silent for a long while. There were myriad responses to her question, but he knew she was not interested in any of them. He could tell her that he worried about appearances; he could tell her Downton needed its mistress; he could tell her that his mother bid him come.

Or he could tell her the truth.

"I miss you."

He spoke the words to the floor of the motor, in barely a whisper. His voice crackled over each syllable, and he fixed his attention onto his shoes, not daring to look up when he heard the material of her gown move, her body turning to his. But when she said nothing, he glanced up slowly, nearly wincing at the expression on her face.

Cora opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of the car brakes, and the opening of the chauffeur's door as they stopped at the front entryway of Mrs. Whitmore's home. She straightened her back, adjusting her gloves as the chauffeur approached her door. But, as if the words were a simple afterthought, she looked at him and replied, "I want to get a divorce," just as the door opened. And then, before he could so much as move, she exited the vehicle and walked toward the front door.

* * *

Cora found herself in the midst of a grand party in a matter of seconds. A swarm of beautiful people, all dressed in the latest most fashionable garb, all surrounded her the moment she stepped inside Mrs. Whitmore's ballroom.

It was easy, at first, to pretend nothing was amiss.

Cora had become rather adept at shielding herself with a mask; her façade was well practiced and enviable. She could charm anyone into believing that she was the happiest girl in the entire world. It was something she knew Violet would be terribly proud of, this steely mask that shut out the world. It was the tough skin Violet always said she needed. Now she had it, and she wondered fleetingly if perhaps it was killing her.

The first glass of champagne went down faster than she realized.

The second and third followed suit soon after.

It was all part of the elaborate game, really. Walking around and smiling, making small talk with strangers, one needed a drink to steady the nerves. And Cora needed three so that she would keep from crying. It was, after all, somewhat trickier than she imagined it would be to wander around after informing her husband that she wanted a divorce.

She had not seen Robert since exiting the vehicle in such a grand fashion. _You ought to be on the stage, _she'd told herself in mock amusement. It had been executed so perfectly. So swift was her admission that he'd not a moment to collect himself or even put up a fight. She knew the fight would come, it always came, but she had successfully staved it off for at least one more night.

She wondered what she was doing.

As she plucked a fourth glass of champagne from a passing tray, she wondered why she had said those words to him? She knew it was wrong and unkind and she really needed to stop saying things simply because they suited her in the moment. But now was not the time for pondering any of that. So instead she sipped from her glass and wandered around the room, greeting various acquaintances and declining dance invitations from the few men that happened to approach her. It was almost like dodging little bullets, and as time passed she chatted less and walked more purposefully toward her destination.

She had nearly made it to her table when Angela Whitmore glided up behind her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, exclaiming "Cora, darling!" as loudly as possible.

Cora smiled, a rarity but something she couldn't seem to help when she spent time with Mrs. Whitmore, and clasped her hands warmly. "Thank you for inviting me," she answered in greeting. "The ballroom looks lovely."

Mrs. Whitmore nodded, leading Cora to the table where Grant, Melanie and a few other honored guests sat. Cora greeted them each with a kind hello, Melanie more so than the rest, and promised to tell them all about her life in England just as soon as they returned from the dance floor. She was glad, really, that they were so intent on dancing the night away. It gave her a reprieve from being Lady Grantham and allowed her to just be Cora, the woman sipping champagne and watching the lovely people dance around the ballroom.

But Mrs. Whitmore, it seemed, was not interested in giving her a reprieve. She had barely had another sip of her drink when she said simply, "your mother tells me that your husband is in Newport?"

It took all Cora had not to choke on her champagne as she felt her face turn red. God, how she despised her mother's penchant for gossip. She wouldn't ordinarily have told Martha, however, when she telephone from New York to say she would not be attending the party, it had somehow slipped out. And apparently Martha had wasted no time spreading that tidbit around to each and every one of her friends. She was actually quite surprised that her mother was willing to divulge this particular information; she knew that if word got out about their marital trouble then Martha would have an absolute fit.

But, ever the graceful guest, Cora smiled and took a prim sip from the flute in her hand. "Yes, he is in Newport."

Mrs. Whitmore smiled, though Cora knew she was watching her expression closely. "Yes, it seems my son-in-law has met him as well; he's become something of a celebrity in my family as of late! Melanie was most excited to hear that her husband made friends with an English Lord," she chuckled, adding, "silly girl, she hasn't a clue what being a Lord even means."

"It's…very complicated to explain," Cora managed politely.

"Will he be staying long?" Mrs. Whitmore was not one for beating around the bush. She had no qualms, much like Martha, about asking tough or impertinent questions if she felt they needed to be answered.

"I don't know," Cora answered simply.

"Do you want him to?"

"I—would you excuse me?" Cora stood abruptly and set her glass down onto the table. Mrs. Whitmore looked surprised but smiled, excusing Cora from the questions she had not a clue how to answer.

All she knew now was that she needed a bit of fresh air. The party was too loud. It hurt her head and made her dizzy. So she wandered out onto the veranda that wrapped around the back of the house in the hopes that some fresh air might set things right again.

But no, of course, that was simply not meant to be. For as she stepped out onto the secluded veranda, Robert's form came into view.

He was standing only a few paces away, his arms hunched forward and resting on the railing. He swirled a glass of scotch in his hand, as was his habit when he was upset, and his entire body seemed to lurch forward, like a tree bending in the wind.

"You're still here," Cora stated, as she moved outside and took the place beside him. She had expected him to return to the inn, perhaps even return straight to England, after their ill-fated car ride, yet here he was. And, when he turned, she could tell by his reddened eyes that he had been crying.

"Yes, I am," he replied, looking down into his full glass. He wasted no time with banal pleasantries; he had no need for them, after all. He set the glass down on the ledge and pursed his lips, shoring himself up for whatever he was about to say. "Did you mean what you said in the motor?" His voice was hoarse and barely a whisper, but he looked right into her eyes, waiting for an answer.

Cora peered down at her hand, her wedding ring catching the sunlight and glinting back up at her. She shook her head just once. "No, I didn't," she replied.

"Then why?" He was desperate for an answer, she could see that much. And when he watched her eyes travel to his glass of scotch, he nodded at it and continued, "I wasn't going to drink it, I just—I liked knowing I could drink it, if I wanted."

Cora nodded, not understanding but having nothing else that seemed quite right to say. He looked at her pleadingly, still desperate for an answer. And when he repeated himself, murmuring, _"why?"_ again, she looked up and said, "I don't know."

And it was true; she did not know. Lately it seemed she knew nothing more than anything. So when she brushed her fingers over his, ever so lightly for the briefest of seconds, and looked into his eyes to answer, "I don't even know myself anymore," it was the truth. But when he moved forward, perhaps in an attempt to assuage the pathetic look on her face, she raised her hand in protestation. She couldn't have him any nearer; she did not trust herself. "No," she said, "please, just…no."

He nodded, not in understanding but with respect for her wishes. And he turned back to the gardens just beyond the veranda, not looking back to her when she moved right beside him and looked out as well.

"We could go home," he mused, speaking no more to her than to the expansive gardens before him. She watched as he traced one finger around the rim of his glass before picking it up and pouring the contents out onto a shrub just below the railing. The idea seemed far away and out of grasp, but still possible all the same. He turned and looked down at her, repeating, "we could both go home."

She looked up at him, a half-smile inadvertently pulling at her mouth, and shook her head. "You know I can't," she answered, her eyes holding his gaze for a long moment. She shook her head once more, as if clearing the very thought from her mind, and turned, gesturing back toward the door. "I'm going inside now."

He nodded and turned more fully, watching as she walked back toward the door and disappeared back into the party.

* * *

It was some time before Robert felt able to return to the grand ballroom. He had considered simply sneaking around the side of the house and returning to the inn, but he did not want to leave Cora. He supposed it would not count as leaving her, exactly, since she'd not allowed him to so much as sit next to her, but nevertheless he wanted to stay.

So he returned inside, with thoughts of procuring some sort of dinner and perhaps even finding his host to thank him properly for the invitation. But his host, it seemed, would be far easier to find in the crowd than Robert anticipated. For just as he reached his table, the unmistakable sound of Cora's laughter washed over him. And, looking up, he was met with the sight of his host, the handsome charming man who he'd had the bad sense to like, reaching for his wife's hand and pulling her onto the dance floor.

Once, when he was a young boy, Robert had witnessed a carriage accident in the village. His father had told him not to look, that it wasn't polite. But he remembered clearly his inability to look away, how raptly he watched the wreckage and then how his father had pulled him away from the scene. It was rather the same as he watched—unable to look away—the dashing American man pull Cora up out of her seat, nearly spilling her champagne over, and walk her onto the dance floor. He watched just as intently as the people sitting around her giggled and clapped in approval of her new dance partner's impetuous actions.

He could tell the moment she stood that Cora had been drinking. He recognized it in her slowed gait and the way she tilted her head at Grant Harris, bobbing slightly as she laughed again. Still, though, he stood, gripping the edge of the chair, and watched the dance begin and the man lead his wife around the floor.

He watched until he could not watch anymore. It became too much, after their third twirl around the room. The way she smiled at him, a foreign smile he did not ever remember her wearing, the way his hand curled around her waist, it made him want to shout and kick and fight anything and everything that was between them. But of course he could not do that. She wouldn't want him to do that.

So he turned away and sat down, knowing for certain that he was a glutton for punishment and that this punishment was the cruelest sort in the entire world. He forced himself not to turn back and watch, forced himself to stare down at his empty plate and study the delicate china pattern. He willed himself not to pivot even an inch when the song ended a few moments later; but despite his carefully fixed gaze he did see Grant Harris walk past his table, alone, and shrug his shoulders in the direction of the group that had surrounded Cora.

He looked up.

Against his better judgment, he looked up to the place on the dance floor where Cora had been and saw that she was gone. He looked around and saw Grant Harris, who smiled and waved at him, take a seat back at the table that housed Cora's empty chair. And so, yet again against his better judgment, he stood and walked out of the room in search of his wife.

She was rather easy to find, actually, as the hallway outside the ballroom was almost completely empty—save for Cora.

She was curled into a chair in the very corner of the room, both hands drawn over her face. She was crying, her shoulders heaving with the effort, but looked up when the sound of his footsteps grew louder. She wiped at her eyes, ineffectually, and stood as he approached her. He watched her sway slightly, unsteady on her feet, and take a step forward to meet him.

"Robert?" She asked between tears. When he tilted his head in question, she replied, "I don't feel well. I want to go home…to my _new home,_" she added, slurring the words a bit.

He nodded, with pursed lips, and very carefully edged an arm around her shoulders, leading her toward the door. He ignored the way her body flinched when he touched her and walked as slowly as he could manage, not wanting her to come by any harm. He tried even more desperately to ignore how good it felt to hold her, even like this. His fingers curled around her upper arm, just where the delicate strap of her dress ended and her soft skin began; the smell of her lavender perfume was intoxicating and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other and continue outside with her.

They walked that way until they reached the drive, where he flagged down a footman who promised to have their car brought around to the front. Cora still stood loosely in his grasp, staring at her shoes and wiping at her eyes every so often.

While they stood and waited, Robert chanced a quick glance down at her, asking very softly, "Cora?" When she looked up a few seconds later, he asked, with slight trepidation, "did—did he say something to upset you?"

Cora frowned and shook her head, a few strands of hair coming loose and falling against her neck. "No," she answered simply, looking back down.

"Alright then." Robert quieted, focusing instead on maintaining an even grip around her shoulders and waiting for the car. It was not his business, he supposed; the conversations she had with others were none of his business anymore. He'd no right to ask, no matter how much he wanted to.

So he waited, silently, until the motor pulled up to meet them a moment later and the chauffeur exited, giving them both a curious once-over as he opened the door. Robert held his hand up when the chauffeur attempted to help Cora in, indicating that he could manage the task himself. And he could; years of practice had made him more than adept at managing around her myriad skirts and such; he had little trouble getting her into the car and then sliding in after her.

She, too, was silent, though even in her inebriated state he could tell she was surprised that he had followed in after her. She turned into herself and rested her head against the door, closing her eyes as the car pulled away.

Robert spent the short ride studying her face, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and the way her nose crinkled, as it often did when she fell asleep. It was altogether too short of a ride, and he could have stayed like that for ages. But the car arrived at the Levinson home a few moments later and Robert set about removing Cora from the car as gently as he had gotten her in there.

After a minor struggle, Robert was able to gather Cora into his arms and lift her out of the car. She was muttering something unintelligible, though she was only half-awake, and leaned into his grasp when he pulled her body just a bit more tightly to his own.

He walked through the door, ignoring more curious gazes from the butler, footman and maid all waiting to attend the mistress of the house. Bypassing them without explanation, Robert continued up the stairs and down the hallway—the terribly familiar hallway—to the door at the end he knew to be Cora's.

He opened the door rather easily and looked down to see Cora staring up at him. He smiled, to which she did not respond, and set her down on the bed, taking two steps backward so as not to upset her with his close proximity.

Again, Cora said nothing and simply stretched out onto the bed, pulling one of the pillows into her grasp. Robert turned to leave, knowing she would absolutely not want his help changing into something more appropriate for bed, and decided he would telephone the next morning to see how she was. Just as he stepped away from the bed, though, he heard her voice muffled by the pillow, "I'm sorry I can't go with you."

Pausing, Robert looked back at his wife, who had rolled over and was looking at him, and smiled sadly. "You could, if you wanted to," he replied.

She clutched the pillow a bit tighter and shook her head. "I don't belong there," she whispered, imitating his words from a month earlier.

"You'll never know how sorry I am, Cora," he replied softly. "But I understand what I've done and I know how wrong I was," Robert explained, walking back across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Cora held the pillow protectively against her chest and gazed up as he added, "I love you, Cora. I'll always love you. But I know that it isn't enough."

He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead and she released a gentle sigh. She said nothing, though, seemingly undeterred by his words, and so he thought it best to take his leave. He stood, straightening his jacket, and left her in peace.

* * *

Cora had indulged in far more drink than she could remember imbibing. It was certainly not a habit of hers, and so when she awoke it was to a turning stomach and pounding headache. Staying in bed seemed an ideal treatment but for reasons beyond even her own comprehension, rather soon after the sun came up, Cora exited the house and began a brisk walk into town. It was uncomfortably hot; it was certainly not an ideal morning for a walk, but when she had woken to her maid bringing in a full breakfast and drawing a bath—her maid who was terribly cryptic about where she had gotten the idea to do these things—she knew exactly what she had to do.

It was a longer walk into town than she remembered. But after braving several dusty paths along the way and more than one uncomfortable gaze from men out working in the early morning, Cora found herself inside the small inn at the center of town, asking the old woman at the desk what room her husband was staying in.

She had a fair amount of time to think during her walk over, despite her pounding headache, and knew what she wanted to do was for the best. She owed Robert an apology for her horribly inappropriate behavior at the party—no doubt he'd been utterly embarrassed by the whole mess—and she owed him her thanks as well, for helping her home safely. She wished she had drunk so much that it simply washed over the memories of the previous night. But she was not that lucky; she remembered every detail of their conversations, every expression he made at her and the exact words he said to her. They repeated themselves over and over in her head. She could not get used to that; she hoped that if they could just speak briefly, and if she could thank him, then perhaps he would see, as she already did, that it was time for him to go back to Downton and leave her to her solitude.

But she knew it was very unlikely that he would simply agree to leave, agree to a divorce and effectively ruin the family name. So, shoring herself up for his temper, she rounded the last stair and knocked at the first door on her left. She had but a moment to look down and adjust her skirt; Robert opened the door, surprise etched across his face, almost immediately after her knock.

She watched as he opened the door wider and she could tell he was fighting the urge to smile. _"Good morning," _he said, and she inclined her head in greeting, asking, "might I come in for a moment?" as she gestured toward his room.

Robert nodded readily and stepped away from the door, allowing her to cross the threshold and show herself in. Cora expected a great many things of her husband; she expected that as his wife she knew him better than anyone. But upon taking one step into his small room at the inn, she nearly gasped, realizing that there were perhaps a great many things that she did not know at all.

The room was small and the carpet threadbare. The paint peeled at the base of the walls and the window was laughably small. It was, at best, comparable to the servants' quarters at Downton. Some people might call it cozy; Robert, _her Robert_, was not one of those people. She looked around, trying not to gape, and pursed her lips for she suddenly felt an unmistakable lump forming in her throat.

"I apologize for not offering you a seat," Robert interrupted, "but, as you can see, I do not have one to offer," he chuckled.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and opened her mouth to speak. "I—" She wanted to know what on Earth he was doing in such a place. He couldn't possibly be staying there. He—he could not really have decided willingly to spend his time at such a meager establishment. But before she could interrogate him about the room, or about what he thought he was doing, she paused, her eyes drawn to the small bedside table just behind him. On the table were three small items lined up neatly in a row: a small comb, a bottle of cologne and a handkerchief.

Cora blanched.

She felt sick to her stomach. And stupid, she felt terribly stupid for reacting in such a way. They were just trifles, nothing to get upset over. But they weren't just things, they were Robert. The small table looked just as it did in his dressing room at home: comb—cologne—handkerchief, all laid out in a neat, orderly row.

She knew how well the comb worked, for she had used it on him (and borrowed it for herself) countless times. She knew what his cologne smelled like, of course, but she also knew exactly how much the bottle cost and where in the store to find it at Selfridges in London. She had bought him two bottles for his birthday, and could still picture the pleased smile on his face when he unwrapped them.

And his handkerchief, plain white with blue stitching, he had given it to her countless times: during the play in London when she was sick with a cold and had forgotten her own; over tea one afternoon when she accidentally blotted her dress with strawberry jam; to cover her finger after pricking it with her sewing needle; and the night Sybil died, when she'd gone to his dressing room in hysterics, wanting nothing more than to die herself. He'd held her tightly, sobbing along with her, and promised that they would all be okay, promised that they would make it through the unimaginable hand they'd been dealt. But somehow, after he'd dried her tears with his handkerchief that night, everything had still gone to pieces. Somewhere along the way they had lost everything that ever mattered.

She could practically feel the soft fabric in her hands, or smell the mixture of cologne and soap and other unidentifiable scents that all mixed together to make Robert _Robert. _As much as she wanted to, she could not draw her eyes away from the small items set out on the table, and as much as she wanted to, or as much as she had convinced herself she wanted to, she could not continue on like this.

"_Cora?" _Robert intoned softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She jumped, feeling even worse when she saw his reaction, and looked up at him bewilderedly.

"—I, I came to thank you for escorting me home last night. I fear I'd had too much to drink," she murmured.

"Think nothing of it," he answered. "I've gotten rather good at tending to ailments related to drink." She looked up expecting him to laugh at the rather dark joke, but his face held not a trace of amusement.

"Is that all?" He asked. "I could ring for tea, or…" he trailed off when she opened her mouth to speak again.

"I wondered if you might want to come back with me and stay at the house," she said abruptly. "Just until you decide what it is you want to—just for a little while," she amended.

"I would not want to make you uncomfortable in your own home," he replied, still speaking very softy.

"—You wouldn't be," Cora replied hurriedly. "I am often out paying calls during the day," she lied, "and there are countless guest bedrooms for you to choose from."

Robert took a step closer. "You want me to stay?" He asked.

Cora drew in a deep breath, knowing his decision would lie with whatever she answered. "I do not want you to stay here," she replied slowly, gesturing around the room with a nod of her head.

"Alright, then," Robert agreed.

"Alright," Cora answered.

And with that, she exhaled a shaky breath and let herself out of the room, not stopping until she was out on the sidewalk and looking up at the sun.


	9. Chapter 9

Robert sat in the brightly painted dining room eating his breakfast and trying his hardest to memorize each and every minute detail that surrounded him. The feel of the rug under his shoes, the way the sun streamed through the expansive bay window and even the satisfying crunch that his toast made when he took a bite were all important, or they seemed important, at least.

He felt irrationally, perhaps, afraid that it was all a large misunderstanding, that Cora was likely to glide into the room, look at him with confusion and order him out of the house right on the spot. So he wanted to memorize each detail; he wanted to remember how it felt to sit at the head of the table and eat his breakfast with the knowledge that his wife was asleep upstairs. It was almost like being at home. If he closed his eyes, the sounds of the birds outside the window sounded similar to the ones that flew around outside of Downton. The jam he spread across his toast could pass as a close substitute for what graced the Downton breakfast table and the servants all smiled at him in the same way they did at home, as though they were glad in some way to have a master of the house present.

But deep down he knew that he was deluding himself.

The jam was cloyingly sweet, raspberry when it should have been strawberry.

The birds here chirped with near constant regularity, providing the most annoying backdrop to any conversation or meal.

The staff smiled at him, perfunctorily, but eyed him with guarded, curious glances.

And his wife may have been asleep upstairs, but it was not the bed he shared with her; he had not left her reclined lazily against her pillows, after an impromptu but altogether delicious morning interlude, as he once might have done. She had not kissed him good morning nor had she smiled and promised to meet him in the main hall so that they could go on a morning walk. He'd no idea if she was even awake, actually, for her door had been closed when he ventured down the hall that morning on his way to breakfast.

Robert sipped his tea and wondered what precisely to do with his day. After several days already spent in Newport, it seemed the activities geared toward a single traveler: sightseeing, walks, purchasing trinkets and clothes, were either terribly boring or he had already done them to fill time. It was unlike any of the past trips to Newport, though there had only been two before this—one, when Mary was quite small and then the second when Sybil was nearly three. There had been countless things to do; they spent their time packing picnics to take to the beach, collecting shells for the girls, or stealing some precious alone time while Martha doted over her grandchildren. Now instead of he and Cora, there was he and there was Cora.

So he sipped his tea as he mulled over the options. He wondered half-heartedly if she might come down for breakfast, but that solitary question was proved to be a negative when the clock struck ten and he was on this third cup of tea, still alone.

It was, in fact, nearly twelve when he happened to run into his wife—quite literally—on his way into the library.

Cora, looking impossibly lovely, was focused on adjusting the sleeve of her dress as she exited the library with her small handbag in tow. Looking up at him bewilderedly—he, too, had been studying the open book in his hands—she managed a soft, "sorry," and moved to pass through the vestibule.

"Wait—"

Robert had no idea what he wanted her to wait for, exactly, but even to have her attention for a fraction of a second seemed a large victory. He cleared his throat, amending his wait, to a "please," and smiled, closing the book he'd been so engrossed in only a moment before.

"Yes?" Cora prompted.

"I—" He paused. '_Where are you going'_ seemed too intrusive a question for their precarious footing and so he looked back up, tilting his head in question, and asked, "I wondered if you would like to have tea outside…with me?"

Cora smiled politely but gestured down at her handbag. "I am going to walk into town." She continued through the doorway, looking back and adding, "but thank you," in a softer tone.

Robert knew this was likely the only chance he would have to speak to her all day, though, and so he took it.

"We could take our tea in town?"

Cora, seemingly surprised at his persistence, frowned. "I need to go pick up a dress that I ordered."

"I could carry your parcels for you," he answered.

He knew he was about to be rebuffed again; he could see it in her expression. But he needed to say the words, needed her to know how desperately he wanted to see her, and wanted to talk to her. And perhaps she did know—for though she tilted her chin up, her expression unreadable, she pursed her lips and nodded, murmuring "alright," as she continued to walk past him toward the front door, leaving her shocked husband in her wake.

* * *

Their walk to town was largely silent, though Cora knew that was her doing. She also knew how terribly she was treating Robert, given his recent exemplary behavior. But even as they ambled toward Main Street, so close they could be hand in hand if they wanted to be, the only things running through her mind were thoughts of the past.

She wanted to focus on the smell of the summer flowers, or the way the sun had broken through the clouds, or even the way Robert's cologne smelled—for she was close enough that it wafted past her every so often. But all she could think, as he tried—and failed—to make conversation was of the bitter arguments they'd had before she left or the way he had looked at her, so angry and full of hatred, or perhaps just pain. It frightened her, still, and she did not know if it would ever stop.

But he was trying; she could give him that much, and she could see how sorry he was. At first his arrival suggested only that he did not want to cause a scene back in London; he was never fond of gossip and Cora knew how greatly it would upset him, not to mention Violet, if the state of their marriage was fodder for gossip. So she simply assumed that he had come to gather up the pieces of their fractured union so that he could sweep them under the rug, promise her whatever she wanted so that she would either return to Downton or at least come up with some believable reason as to why they were no longer residing at the same estate.

She had not given him the chance to do any of that, after all; her decision to leave Downton had been quickly decided and not thought over at length. All she knew after their fight that evening, over a month ago, was that she had to leave.

And so she did.

But now here she was again, subverting his chance to explain himself, his chance to smooth things over. It seemed a question of whether it was even possible for them; the state of their marriage seemed so dismal. But she knew it was unfair for her to cut things off so abruptly, without so much as fair warning. And so as they rounded the corner to the dress shop, Cora turned to her husband, asking, "Robert?"

He turned to face her, pausing mid-way through his explanation of why the flowers on the road were more vibrant than the English variety (something to do with the soil, apparently) and tilted his head in question. "Yes?"

"I don't need to go to the dress shop," she replied simply.

Robert frowned, reaching up to wipe his perspiring brow. "Have you changed your mind about the dress?"

Cora looked down at her shoes, focusing on the pavement for a long moment before returning her gaze to Robert. "No," she answered, "I haven't changed my mind; I never ordered a dress."

"I don't understand."

"I—I never ordered a dress," she repeated. "I simply said that I did because I didn't want to have tea with you back at the house."

And then, truly, she felt like the absolute worst person in the entire world. She watched his face fall and felt as though someone had pierced her heart clear through. She was hurting him; she couldn't stop hurting him, it seemed, when still all she really wanted to do was cry with relief that he was standing before her, healthy and so much like he'd been when they were happy. But they couldn't be happy. Not now; could they? No, it was impossible. There was too much water flooded under their bridge to go back—too many words said and shouted in anger, too many things to regret. And now, looking at his face, here was another.

"I see," he replied quietly. "You needn't have walked all this way to avoid tea with me, Cora. I would not have accosted you for declining…"

He looked down again and she knew he was searching for words. She knew because she was too; it seemed there was nothing to say that wouldn't inflict more pain on the situation. But there they stood, at the edge of the sidewalk, toe to toe.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, "I really am."

"I know."

Cora turned, looking around the quiet street, anywhere but at his face. And then, in some serendipitous, or perhaps ironic, twist of fate, her gaze settled on a teashop a few doors away. Chuckling softly, at both the situation they found themselves in and at the sheer discomfort she felt, Cora nodded toward it, asking, "I suppose we could still have tea?" in question.

Robert shook his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a defeated child. "No, Cora, it isn't necessary. I won't have your pity; please, I can handle many things but not that."

"It isn't pity," she answered. "I'm thirsty."

She watched him roll his eyes; though she knew he likely meant the expression in jest, it actually comforted her in some small way. She was rather tired of him constantly tiptoeing around her. If they wanted a chance at any real conversation, he would need to stop playing the part of the remorseful husband, and she the angry wife. But whatever he was feeling, he was not going to let her blunt invitation pass. He extended his arm, which surprising even herself she took, and walked her into the teashop on the corner.

* * *

It was vaguely reminiscent of their courtship, he unsure and she silent. Cora looked around the small dining room, as Robert poured their tea and wondered if the other patrons could feel the nervousness radiating from her body. Robert had ordered their tea, as he always did, but then looked sheepish as if she might scold him for taking such a liberty. When she smiled, hoping to assure him in some way, he smiled cautiously in return and set about resuming their earlier discussion about the flowers in America and London.

It was awful, really.

To sit across from the man who knew her better than anyone in the entire world and talk about flowers instead of about their marriage, it was awful. But she allowed him to go on and on until the tea arrived, and even as he poured, for she felt it would be cruel to interrupt his tangent; it seemed to soothe his frayed nerves in some way.

And perhaps it did soothe him, or shore up his resolve, as he was the first to speak after taking a long sip from the piping hot teacup. "This is quite good," he remarked, "but it isn't like home." He emphasized the latter part of the sentence so she would understand his meaning.

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "But it is still quite good."

"Cora..."

"Yes?"

"What are we going to do?"

She made sure that her delicate teacup was settled in the saucer before looking back up at her husband. She did not trust her hands to keep from shaking if she held the cup in her hand whilst speaking to him about subjects beyond floral facts and tea menus. "We are going to enjoy our tea," she responded after a pause.

"After tea. I meant after tea," he replied quickly.

"We'll go back to the house—"

"—And then?" He prompted. He spoke softly, clearly afraid of pressing her for detail but desperate for answers as well. There were too many answers that he wanted.

"I don't know."

"We cannot continue like this forever." He set down his own cup before amending, "I cannot continue like this forever."

To this Cora narrowed her eyes, felt her body tense automatically. "I did not ask for this. And—and I did not ask for you to come here," she replied.

"Yet here I am."

"Well, that is all your own doing, Robert. Perhaps you would have been happier at Downton. Or in London."

"No."

"No?"

"How could I be? I—you left me there all alone, Cora." He looked down again, fidgeting in the chair that suddenly seemed far too small for him. As she watched him she could tell he was in pain—actual, physical pain as he adjusted himself and stared intently at the place setting.

Cora shrugged. She had little idea of what to say, for it was true—she had left. She had left him. "Maybe you were right," she conceded.

"Right?" Robert frowned in confusion.

"I don't belong there. I never belonged there."

Again, repeating the words he had so carelessly thrown at her, they reached an impasse. For it was, ultimately, what the dissolution of their relationship, of their happy family and home, boiled down to. She'd not belonged there thirty two years earlier—countless people had made it clear to her at the time—and even now, three decades later, she had come to find that her fierce spirit, the depth of her emotions and the strength with which she held her convictions were not really wanted at Downton. Downton needed a mistress, yes, but it did not need someone who was unwilling to play the part as it was written. If she could not swallow her tears, swallow her feelings and carry on, then she could not stay there.

Cora was already lost in thought when Robert interrupted, sitting up in his chair, "perhaps you don't." And when she looked up at him, bewildered, he reached across the table, his large hands easily covering hers. "Perhaps I don't either,"he continued.

"Don't be silly," Cora murmured, allowing him to keep his hands clasped over hers. "Of course you belong there."

He shook his head, squeezing the hands that felt so familiar against her skin. "No," he replied in just a whisper. "I belong wherever you are, Cora."

Cora couldn't bear to look at him. If she just stared at their hands, she would be alright; everything would be alright. But it was not enough. Alright was not enough. So she looked up, tentatively, and felt her resolve crumble faster than she thought possible. "I—I need some air," she said hurriedly, standing up and detangling their hands. Robert nodded, standing up as she did, and she felt his eyes on her back as she walked—practically stumbling—out of the small shop.

Cora was stood on the very edge of the sidewalk when Robert exited the teashop a short while later. She had managed to regain control of her breathing, and wipe the errant tears from her cheeks before he reappeared and she could tell he felt badly for putting her on the spot.

He held up a small box, explaining, "I saw they had those tarts you like," before letting the parcel fall back down to his side. She appreciated his hesitance to continue their conversation, as it meant he knew how upset she was, and he simply nodded in the direction from which they'd come, suggesting that they walk back to the house.

Their walk back to the house was far quieter than the walk into town, if that was even possible; but now Robert seemed deterred from even commenting on the flowers, and concentrated only on maintaining a steady pace. She felt his gaze on her every so often, checking to make sure she was alright. She appreciated that too.

She wanted to tell him that she was, or that she would be.

But before she could decide on some appropriate way to break the silence, they had arrived back at her mother's driveway, marking the end of their attempted afternoon together and their walk, too.

Slowly they approached the front door, but just as Cora moved to take the first step, Robert reached out, grasping her forearm ever so gently.

"Cora?" His voice was soft and coated with a sadness that surprised her.

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said; I want you to know that," he replied slowly.

"I don't understand, Robert." Her own voice surprised her, too, as did the sound of his name passing through her lips.

"I belong wherever you are and I…I'll stay here forever if it is where you want to be. I could live here; with you I could live here and leave everything else behind." He danced over the words in a way that suggested it had been an impetuous decision to speak them.

Cora took one step up toward the door, looking back over her shoulder. "We don't have to talk about that right now," she said quietly.

"Alright then," Robert replied. "Oh—your tart," he added, holding up the box he'd purchased for her.

Cora paused on the step, her hand frozen on the bannister for a beat. Turning around and stepping back down, so that she was on level ground with her husband, she took the box from his proffered hand and looked at it intently. Then, she leaned down and set it onto the ground, careful not to disturb the contents. And then, before the voice in her head screaming at her to stop could convince her to do as much, Cora looped both her hands around Robert's neck and leaned up, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that she wanted never to end.


	10. Chapter 10

Robert's cheek burned as he walked down the corridor for breakfast. He was sick, certainly, but with nothing that could be cured by visiting a doctor. He'd felt the burning sensation on his skin ever since Cora's kiss; the places touched by the pads of her fingertips and where her thumb brushed back and forth against his cheek still tingled with the memory of it. And his lips, too, could be called upon to remember the sensory pleasure of touching Cora's. Her lips were like silk but it'd been so long that he'd nearly forgotten how delicious her skin tasted, how alluring the scent of her perfume was when her body pressed against him.

It had been just a kiss—a very brief kiss thanks to him, but even still it haunted him nearly a day later. Robert had not meant to ruin everything; it seemed lately that was all he was good at, ruining things. Cora had only just pressed their lips together, her tongue brushing across his lower lip, when he felt himself getting aroused. And before he could even put a bit of space between them, Cora pulled away, looking utterly bewildered—and embarrassed—as she muttered something about having to go upstairs to change. He'd been left standing in the front drive with more than just his deflated self-esteem.

They'd not spoken for the rest of the evening. Cora did not come downstairs for dinner and Robert was too afraid to knock on her door. He'd thought it best to leave things be for the night. But he'd woken with an even stronger desire to speak to Cora, to make things right, and so as he walked down the hallway he resolved to seek her out immediately after breakfast.

He needn't have made any plans to find her, though, for just as he descended the last stair, a peal of Cora's laughter floated toward him from the front door. The sound jarred him, as did the sight of his wife standing in the main hall wearing a lovely navy colored frock. But it was not her laughter that confused him; it was the intonation. It sounded unlike the soft giggles and loud guffaws they'd shared. Instead, it was quite like the sound Cora made in the company of his mother and her friends—sugary sweet and perfunctory.

But still, the sound caught his attention. And instead of turning to the dining room, Robert found himself being led, as if by some force beyond his control, toward his wife's figure and the half-opened front door.

He was ready to announce his presence to Cora when the other voice boomed loudly, excitedly, "Crawley! It's good to see you, pal." Grant Harris stepped sideways, more fully into view, and extended his hand as Cora, who'd nearly jumped out of her skin at his sudden appearance, moved out of the way.

"Hello," Robert replied warily. The man really was too handsome for his liking. Less tired and his features more tan than Robert's, Grant Harris was the epitome of health and summer merriment. He wore a cream colored linen suit in contrast to Robert's simple black garments, and Robert tried not to notice how well the light fabric matched that of what Cora wore. Nevertheless, he extended his hand and smiled back at the man before him, curious as to why he was calling so early in the day. He could not help that his thoughts were immediately drawn back to images of the very same man dancing at the birthday fete with his wife.

Robert heard Cora inhale, as if about to speak, when Grant smiled again, passing a glance between the two Crawleys before him and explained, "I've just stopped by on my way into town," he nodded at his car parked out front. "I was just explaining to Cora that Melanie and I would like to host you both for dinner this evening; a new restaurant's opened in town and we thought we'd give it a go before heading back to New York."

Robert noticed that Grant's smile really was quite disarming. For, he found himself returning the expression again before turning to Cora in question, hoping that she would accept the invitation on behalf of them both.

But Cora was still wearing the false expression he knew so very well. And it came as no surprise when she cleared her throat, lying, "we do so appreciate the invitation, Grant, but I am actually feeling a bit under the weather today."

_Grant. _Yes, apparently he was _Grant _to her. Not Mr. Harris, not any sort of appellation that would soothe Robert's nagging jealousy. Grant simply nodded, making the appropriate inquires about Cora's health before placing his hat back atop his head and adding, "Well, Melanie and I will be in Newport for another week and I know she'd just love to see you, Cora." With that, he smiled one final charming smile and turned on his heels.

Both Robert and Cora watched from the door as he stepped down to the driveway and reentered his motor, starting the car and pulling back down the way he came as he waved goodbye to them both.

It was Cora who finally closed the door, looking up at him with an odd half-smile.

"We could have gone, you know. I wouldn't have minded," Robert offered, following after Cora who'd turned and started walking in the direction of the dining room.

"Oh, no," she replied simply. And then, as if an afterthought, "I don't want to give people the wrong idea."

Robert frowned as he took a seat opposite hers at the breakfast table. But she offered no explanation for her words and quietly began to butter a piece of toast, gesturing for one of the maids to come in and pour her tea.

Breakfast, and the rest of the day, turned out to be a silent affair.

Rather strangely, they spent the day in close proximity but failed to say more than a few words to one another. And by the time dinner was over, they were still together, decamped in the drawing room sitting across from one another yet again.

Cora had instructed the footmen to open all the windows, which allowed a perfectly cool breeze to drift in and out of the room. She'd further instructed them to light a fire in the grand fireplace that centered the room; it quickly filled the area with the scent of pine needles and winters long past. It was comforting and intimate, in a disjointed sort of way. They were still, after all, hardly looking at each other. And yet there they sat, in the drawing room with dim lights and a flickering fire, every so often gazing up from their respective letters and book to steal a furtive glance at the other.

It was Cora who drew the short straw and lost their little game. She clasped a letter in her hands as their eyes met, Robert having just sat back down from stoking the fireplace. She blushed, knowing she was caught, and quickly returned her gaze to the pages before her. But the air in the room changed, now that the game was up, and so Robert thought it an opportune moment to perhaps change the terms of their unspoken agreement.

"Perhaps—" He waited for her to look up again before continuing, "perhaps we could have the Harris' over for dinner before they go back to New York. Or we could make a reservation at that new restaurant they suggested?"

Cora peered at him confusedly before answering, "No, I don't think so." And then, perhaps to interrupt what she anticipated him saying next, she held up the letter she'd been reading and explained, "I've had a letter from Edith."

Robert nodded, remaining silent so that she could speak, and Cora began to read directly from the page.

…_I arrived at Downton to find it absolutely barren, Mama. Carson was here but the entire house was terribly dusty and Papa was nowhere to be found. Carson said he'd gone somewhere, on a trip of some sort, but could not tell me when he would be back. Mama, I'm not quite sure what to do. Shall I telephone Granny? I will wait for your reply, but I am rather concerned…_

Cora paused, looking up at him briefly before returning her gaze to the letter and scanning for another section to read.

…_Mary is, of course, doing perfectly well but she refuses to admit that her back pains her or that her clothes need to be let out. Dr. Clarkson says things are progressing normally but she has decided to see a specialist in London, just in case…_

Again, she paused. This time it seemed for good, as she set the delicate stationary down onto the settee beside her and looked up again.

"I'm glad to know that Mary is doing well," she murmured.

Robert was not entirely sure whether or not she was speaking to him, or just to herself, so he replied just to be safe. "Yes, yes, though I don't know why they would need a specialist…" he replied, trailing off as he said the last words aloud, realizing rather quickly how it sounded.

Cora's eyes flashed with anger, her hand reaching out to aggressively encircle the near-empty glass of brandy set before her on the table. "You don't?" She muttered, swilling the amber liquid around the delicate crystal glass. When she looked up at him again, her expression was considerably cooler, but he could see the grasp on the stem of her glass remained particularly tight.

"I apologize," Robert replied, abashed. He knew not how to make amends for everything they had experienced as of late; every apology seemed trite and every words hollow. She had heard them all so many times.

But what else was there, besides words? Their relationship had been built upon them. In the beginning, when physicality was blushed upon and gestures remained awkward, they had words. There were greetings and goodnights and quiet discussions along garden paths. And later there were promises, of love and of menial tasks needing to be done. There were assurances of happiness and joy and the soft tones of fairytales whispered in nurseries and on occasion in the library, too. What could he say if not '_I'm sorry'_? Where were they to go if even the very basis of their marriage seemed foreign and unreachable?

So, as if grasping desperately at something that once was, he tried again.

"I apologize," he repeated, reaching for his own cup—only to find that his tea had already been drunk. He sighed, softly, and finally looked up at Cora once more, adding, "and I apologize for yesterday afternoon as well. I never meant to get…overzealous with you."

Cora stood, still making focused circular motions with her glass, and approached the crackling fire. She looked into the flames, rather than at him, and answered, "You needn't apologize. I've put up with a great deal of your urges over the years."

Her words cut more than he expected them to. If she had the ability to utterly destroy him, to break him like a porcelain vase, he was rather certain that she would. But, clearly, she did have the ability; it hurt terribly, more than he would ever be willing to admit.

Robert stood as well and approached the fireplace, his eyes maintaining steady contact with the side of Cora's face. He could see the tension stowed in her chin and knew that she was purposefully not looking at him. And it burned; her unwillingness to look at him, to see the effect of her words, hurt. "Why must you be so cruel?" He asked, placing one hand on the mantle as his body turned to hers.

"I don't know," she replied with near immediacy. She turned, finally, fixing him with a blank stare. "I—I blame you."

"Obviously," he replied, chuckling darkly.

"Yes…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes traveling to the fireplace once more. She looked down at her glass for a moment, perhaps contemplating another sip, before abruptly tossing it right into the flames without so much as a flinch when the glass made a shattering noise against the dark stones.

It disturbed him, greatly, to see her like this. But yelling and shouting would get him nowhere. So deliberately avoiding her sudden gesture, Robert looked at her once more, replying softly, "it was not my fault."

This time when she looked up at him her eyes were red and full of tears. She bit her lip, attempting to stave off the inevitable but when that did not work, she wiped at them ineffectually with her hand and nodded. "I know," she said simply. Turning, she walked back to the settee and brushed at her eyes again. "But where, then?" she asked.

"Where, what?" Robert asked in turn, venturing back to the sitting area to reclaim his place across from her.

Her expression was darkened by tears and her brow furrowed in upset, but she cleared her throat and explained, "if not on you, where am I to put all of this?" To match actions to words, she placed both hands carefully across her chest, to cover her heart. "It hurts. Every day it hurts. And if I cannot blame you, no matter how horrid and bitter and evil it makes me, then who am I to blame?"

"Cora—" he tried to interrupt, fishing clumsily in his pocket for a handkerchief, but she shook her head and held up a hand, speaking over him.

"I could blame her—_Sybil," _she corrected, "for marrying a servant, for going against our wishes and moving to some god forsaken place where she knew no one and existed in squalor compared to everything we gave her. I could blame her for being ungrateful and brave and so determined to prove that she did not want to live on the path we groomed so meticulously for her. I could blame Branson—" this time she winced, at her slip of his name, her slip of referring to him as _Branson_, for then perhaps she was no better than her husband who seemed to still derive pleasure from "accidentally" referring to him as such. But she shook her head again and carried on, a determined sort of look in her eye. "I could blame him for stealing her away from us, for convincing our baby that she was in love and then carrying her off and getting her pregnant before she was scarcely more than a child herself. Or," she said finally, "I could blame myself. I could blame myself for not watching her more closely, not begging her to stay at Downton instead of going to Ireland. I could blame myself for not fighting you harder when you would not listen to Doctor Clarkson."

She was crying now, bawling really, and seemed to curl into herself as if every inch of her body pained her. She paused, unable to go on, and made no attempt to pull away when Robert stood from his chair and crossed the rug, sitting down beside her and drawing her into his arms. He said nothing as she cried for what became a rather long time. It had often surprised him, in years past, just how much she could cry, but he thought nothing of that sort as she clung desperately to his dinner jacket, her nails digging uncomfortably into the fabric and pressing into his chest.

When she did quiet, after a time, he murmured "Cora?" very softly in question, but had not a moment to speak again, for she interrupted him once more.

"—Don't you see?" She whispered sadly, her voice hoarse from the effort of crying. "I need to blame you because I can't blame Tom, not really, and Sybil—I, I could never…it's just me. It's all on me and I can't get out of bed each morning if I don't gather it all up and leave it to you."

Robert nodded slightly, and released his grip on her body. "But, I can't either, Cora. I cannot go on like this, not anymore." He turned away from her, resting his elbows on both his knees and drawing his head into his upturned hands. "I've done everything, tried everything. Where do we go from here?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Have you spoken to Murray?"

Robert sighed, removing his head from his hands. "Yes, I have."

He would not lie to her; pretend he'd not inquired about enacting a more formal split. Murray had been surprised, though coolly professional, and laid out the options that would be available to them. There were few, but enough that if they wanted never to see one another again, it would be possible. After their meeting, Robert drowned himself in scotch and torn up the handwritten pages Murray had gifted him with—even the thought of it had made him nauseous. But here she was, drawing out the memories of that particular day and looking at him expectantly.

"It would mean signing several papers," Robert explained, clearing his throat. "It would be a formal separation, not a…not a divorce unless that is what we wanted. That would be more involved. But we would need to sign the papers; it would leave you with a generous monthly allowance though most of the money would remain tied to the estate. And Downton…I would keep Downton—"

"—Of course," she finished, not unkindly. "Of course you would. I would never ask you to leave your home."

"No," he corrected. "Downton is our home."

She smiled at him, sadly again, and nodded slightly in agreement. "Well, even still, you may have it."

"Cora, I told you—I do not want it, not without you. I'll go wherever you want us to go, I have given most of my life to Downton. I want to give the rest to you."

"Robert—"

The tone of her voice said it before her words did. She reached out tentatively, clasping her hand over his, and whispered, "I can't. I love you more than I could ever love anybody, but I can't."

"Cora?" His voice was surprisingly small, when he found it. And speaking her name in question, he watched bewilderedly as she removed her hand from his and stood, walking toward the door.

She turned back, just as her hand made contact with the knob, and she pursed her lips, looking almost tenderly at him. "I know this is going to be something else I'll blame myself for," she said quietly, "but I think in the morning you should send a telegram to Murray and ask him to have those papers drawn up."

She exited the room and disappeared behind the dark wooden door as he nodded dumbly, only vaguely aware that he was actively nodding away his entire life.


	11. Chapter 11

A week had passed.

As she looked through her jewelry box, she wondered if the passage of time seemed faster because she had been sleeping so much or if it were simply because she no longer had any interest in things like days and time. It was easier, in a way, to shut oneself up and lock out the world. Cora quickly realized that the world kept on, though, even once the decision to remove yourself from the equation was made.

She had stayed inside, mostly. Today was the first time she was out of bed before eleven. After so many weeks of sleepless nights, it appeared her body was revolting, forcing her into a perpetually sleepy state. After managing to force herself out of bed, though, she thought it a good idea to get something done, at least. And so the jewelry box it was. She sat on the floor with the baubles all scattered around, quite like the girls used to like to do when they were young. She could remember so clearly their little faces and the pleading tones of their voices when they would ask to try on the sparkling necklaces and tiaras; the way their faces lit up when she allowed them to would be imprinted on her memory forever.

It was a rather arduous task, untangling the countless chains. After traveling in suitcases and trunks all the way from London, they seemed to be inextricably stuck together. Some of the longer pieces had been easy for the maids to deal with, but these had been balled together since she first opened her cases in Newport.

The maids had left her to her task, aware that all she really wanted was quiet after refusing three offers of tea or breakfast. And it was only a short time after what would normally be luncheon that one maid knocked softly and brought her the post without another word. That, too, had been an arduous task. Usually the mail was light; there were few correspondences addressed to her, as her mother's mail was sorted out before being brought to her, but on this particular day there was not one but two letters addressed to _The Countess of Grantham. _

The first was from the future countess; Mary's letter spoke of little beyond the superficial, save for a few lines at the end. She talked of her doctor visits and how excited Matthew was about their impending arrival. She neither asked nor pressed for details about when her mother might be returning. And there was no mention or question about her father, either. Cora felt a stab of annoyance that her eldest child could be so unfeeling when it came to her parents, especially her father whom she had always been particularly close to.

The second letter was not quite as eagerly opened. Cora knew precisely who the scratched cursive handwriting belonged to and she really had little interest in what her mother felt necessary to write in a letter rather than say over the telephone. But, against her better judgment, she opened the letter and imbibed the contents faster than she probably should. Martha was not known for her subtlety and even her letters had a rather shout-like quality to them. She could hear her mother's words come right off the page.

_You're making a mistake._

_You cannot throw away your entire life._

_You must move on. _

_The past is in the past._

_Go home. _

Martha was not one for advice. She was one for instructions, requirements, and demands. Her letter was riddled with them. Cora knew she meant well—well, she hoped that she did, at least—but all the letter did was give her a terrible headache. She wanted to throw it away, but had ended up leaving it beside her on the floor, picking it up to scan the contents again every so often, repeating the words over and over in her mind. She realized that this was, for the very first time in her life, a time where she decided what was going to happen next. When she was young, it had been Martha's choice to sail for London, Martha who had encouraged her to court young men in the hopes of securing a marriage, and Martha who stood beside her whilst she signed her fortune away in the law offices of the Crawley family solicitor. Then, after all that, it was simply what was expected of she and Robert—marriage, children, it was just the plan she always expected to fulfill. The task of caring for her had passed from Martha to Robert quite seamlessly.

It hadn't been bad. It had been quite lovely, their life together. But now she was left to decide things for herself, with no one's feelings to consider but her own.

It was a rather lonely prospect.

* * *

By the time the butler brought Robert his post, it was already mid afternoon. He was ensconced in the library with a cup of tea and a novel, trying desperately to focus his attention on the pages before him. The post, though, turned out to be yet another distraction.

The only piece of mail for him was a thick envelope from an address in New York that he did not recognize. The return said, in short, almost curt, penmanship: _S. L. Williams, Attorney at Law. _

He tore it open, against his better judgment, and was soon knee deep in a pile of paperwork sent from Murray's associate that, with a few signatures, could effectively put an end to the life that he knew. It was awful, really, and how he even willed himself to look at the papers was beyond him. Words like _separation, formalized, _and _decree _all jumped up from the page, mocking him and his missteps. How on Earth was it possible their relationship could culminate into a few sterile documents that not once mentioned "Robert" or "Cora"?

He couldn't look at them any longer. He could let Cora have them; she could sort through them and then just tell him what to sign. He stood, gathering up the papers into a neat stack, and wandered out to the hall where a footman pointed him in the direction of his wife.

Cora was sat on the large veranda, on a plush bench that she often made use of in the afternoons. There was an untouched glass of lemonade beside her and a few letters that were lying across the table in front of her. Robert recognized Martha's handwriting on the page of one, but had no chance to ask of her mother or anything else before Cora turned to face him, a pained look on her face.

"I'm sorry—am I interrupting?" he asked, the papers still burning their weight into his hands.

"No, of course not," Cora answered, her expression clearing. "Would you like some lemonade?"

Robert shook his head no and tentatively took the seat beside her. They had reached an odd sort of détente in their relationship; neither seemed to want to cause any more hurt, so they wandered around the house in pseudo-normalcy, behaving politely, if not kindly to one another whenever they happened to end up in the same space. But he drew the line at lemonade. He would not sit out on the veranda and sip lemonade with her. That, he simply did not have in him.

Shaking his head again, Robert moved to hold up the papers, explaining, "I've had a letter—" just as he was interrupted by the crunch of gravel that signaled someone walking up the drive. They both looked up to see a young man dressed in livery approach with what looked like a small card in hand.

The lad smiled in greeting, inclining his head a bit, and held out the note. "I am looking for—" he paused to peek at the recipient's name, "—the Countess of Grantham."

Cora smiled slightly, inclining her own head in acknowledgement and replied, "well, you have found her," as she stood and extended her hand to receive the note.

The young man smiled again. "I—I am to wait here for your response," he explained.

Cora looked down, tearing the corner of the paper open, and read the contents, passing it to Robert when she finished. "The Harris' want us to go to dinner this evening."

"Ah. Well, I am perfectly content to stay here if you would like to accept," Robert replied quietly.

Cora shook her head, as if deep in thought, and turned a bit closer to him. "No, I…I wouldn't want the staff here to serve an entire dinner for one person," she answered.

Robert nodded in agreement, not wanting to mention that they had been preparing dinners for one for quiet some time anyway. "Yes," he agreed. "And it would be unkind of us to refuse a second invitation."

"Yes, alright then," Cora looked back to the waiting footman. "Please tell the Harris' we would be happy to join them for dinner this evening."

The man smiled and nodded enthusiastically, turning on his heels to leave Lord and Lady Grantham on the veranda, eyeing one another cautiously.

Robert watched and waited until the man was out of sight before turning back to his wife. "I'll see you at dinner time, then?" She smiled slightly and answered in the affirmative before reaching for the open letter that was still beside her. It was then that Robert remembered his original reason for seeking out his wife, and he looked down at the papers still folded in his own hand.

He folded them once over, and returned them to his jacket pocket without another word, disappearing back into the house so that he could bathe before dinner.

* * *

When he arrived in the foyer to meet his wife a few hours later, Robert was surprised to find her dressed in a deep purple gown. If one stood far enough, it could be mistaken for black, but he'd been with her when they made the purchase; they were in London, walking back to Grantham House, when she'd spotted it in a shop window. It was nearly three weeks before Sybil was due to give birth; they'd made the trip to purchase some special things for the baby.

He had forgotten all about their trip, and the lovely dress, until that very moment.

It looked even lovelier on her than it had when she'd tried it on the first time and it was enough to take his breath away. He felt foolish for a moment, quite aware that he was staring, but Cora turned and smiled at him, and any thought other than the singular notion that he would get to dine next to her seemed immaterial.

And when they sat together in the car on the way to the restaurant, it was all he could do not to stare again. Luckily, Cora spoke up almost immediately after the chauffeur closed their door, effectively drawing his attention back to her face.

"A letter from Mary arrived today," she said conversationally. When he smiled at the mention of their eldest child, she continued, "she says she is doing very well. She—she said she has spoken to Carson and they've decided that she and Matthew will be moving back to the house after the baby arrives, perhaps around the holidays."

Robert cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "Yes, well Downton is certainly larger than Crawley House. They'll be more comfortable there."

"Robert?"

"Yes?"

Cora toyed with the bracelet on her wrist. "Mary said the house was in disarray. She said you'd dismissed most of the staff? Told Carson not to go into any of the main rooms?"

He cleared his throat again, clutching at the seat beneath him. "Yes. I…they were inessential. I didn't need all those people wandering about with no one to care for."

"But what about you?" Cora murmured, releasing her bracelet and looking up at him.

"It's not them I needed," he answered simply.

Cora said nothing else, choosing instead to turn and gaze out her window for the rest of their ride into town.

When they did arrive at the restaurant, Cora was still quiet but held her hand out to him when he attempted to help her from the motor. And then, whether out of habit or to keep up appearances, she slipped her arm through the loop his created and let him lead her into the restaurant.

They spotted the Harris' right away. Seated at a table in the center of the dining room—the seat often reserved for the most exclusive guests—the couple waved them over and greeted them happily. Taking the place beside his wife, Robert made pleasant conversation with the group as he waited for his wife to remove her shawl for the waiter to take.

"We're so glad you both could make it," Melanie gushed, taking a sip of her wine. She flagged another waiter back over and pointed at Robert and Cora's empty glasses, gesturing for him to pour wine for them both. "I've been dying to have a proper catch up," she explained, turning her attention to Robert.

"Thank you for the invitation," he said politely, sipping from his freshly poured wine.

Cora smiled as well, and tilted her head in agreement. "Yes, we're so pleased to be here."

"No, the pleasure is ours," Grant replied, raising his glass. "Melanie has so wanted to get together; I think she would quite like to hop a boat back to London with you both," he chuckled.

"London is not all that glamorous," Cora chuckled.

"No," Robert added, "but it is home."

"Yes, you're ever so lucky to live there, Cora" Melanie grinned. "I imagine you were quite glad to leave New York and Newport for such an exciting adventure all those years ago."

Cora chuckled again, softer this time, and took a long sip of wine. "I was so young I hardly knew what I was getting into," she mused. "Luckily it turned out rather well."

Melanie grinned, seemingly pleased to sit and listen to all of Cora's stories, and she prompted more, asking questions about their children and house. Cora, as was her habit ever since Sybil passed, grew quiet and let Robert tell story after story about Downton, about Edith writing for the papers and about Mary's wedding.

He felt an obligation to chatter endlessly, though it was not his nature. With Cora so quiet, seemingly lost in her own little world, he wanted to pick up the slack; he would hate to be rude, even if his feelings about Grant Harris were lukewarm at best. And it was easy for him, in a way, to brush over the last few months and pretend as though all was right in their little world. He could pretend that he did not mind, or worry, about Edith on her own in London. It was easy to talk about Mary, she never gave him cause for worry, and they spoke only briefly of Sybil, accepting the Harris' deepest condolences when they explained the circumstances.

Midway through another story, this particular one about Sybil's decision to wear trousers to dinner one evening, Robert felt the press of Cora's hand over his own. Stunned, momentarily, his story lapsed as his brain and body adjusted to this change in the topography of the table. But he willed himself not to turn and look her way, not wanting to make a scene over something that would, to an outsider, seem so very small. So he continued on, speaking softly about the look on his mother's face and the way Mary and Edith had crowed over the entire situation, but carefully wrapped his fingers around Cora's as securely as he could manage before finishing his tale.

They were nearly through with dessert when he felt Cora's fingers unwind from his. His left hand instantly felt the loss, his skin tingling where her grip had been tightest. He wanted to reach back over, reestablish the precarious, bewildering connection they'd only just begun, but the sound of Melanie Harris' fork clambering down against her plate and her rather loud, "oh, I nearly forgot—" drew him out of his musings.

He and Cora looked up and watched as Melanie patted her husband's shoulder—reminding him of something—and he in turn reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small envelope, which he handed back to his wife.

"I promised my mother that I would give you this," she exclaimed, passing it across table. "It's an invitation to her garden party next week. We'll be back in New York but she made me promise to give it to you and tell you how very much she would enjoy seeing you."

Robert lifted the delicate paper invitation from the envelope and scanned the page. He smiled slightly and handed the invitation to his wife who, without looking, replied, "yes, but of course we will pop in for a visit."

Wincing, Robert took the invitation back and shook his head. "I apologize, but I am afraid I will be on a ship back to England this time next week—"

The sound of another dessert fork clamoring noisily against the table interrupted him mid-sentence. This time, though, it was Cora who dropped her silverware so abruptly. Again, he willed himself not to look at her, even though he could feel her eyes on him. He smiled again, perfunctorily, and explained, "I have some business I must attend to, unfortunately."

Grant nodded in understanding and Melanie rolled her eyes playfully, likely at Cora. "These men of ours are always working, aren't they? I do hope you will still go to the party, though!" Cora's response was a terse "_perhaps,"_ and then she seemed intent to finish her dessert in silence.

* * *

There was a chill in the summer air by the time Robert and Cora exited the restaurant and bundled themselves into the waiting motor. Cora said nothing until they were halfway back to the house, turning to face him and saying, "were you planning to tell me about your departure? You know it was quite embarrassing to sit there in total oblivion." Her attempt to be harsh with him was a terrible failure. Her eyes were already bright and glassy, like they always were when she was about to cry. And the way she clutched her handbag was how she often did when she was upset about something. But, to her credit, she neither cried nor yelled; she only looked at him expectantly.

"I do not wish to cause you any more pain, Cora. I booked my crossing yesterday, and plan to leave next Thursday for Liverpool." He paused, weighing the words stuck on his tongue, but decided they were better said than not, "and, you asked me to have those papers drawn up. Cora, I cannot go on like this. Not with you." He felt remarkably strong in that moment, and this time willed himself to look right at his wife. She looked tired, so terribly tired, and said nothing for a long moment.

"I—I simply think it would be rude to decline the invitation," she responded, speaking nothing of the more pressing matter he brought up.

"I'm sorry," he answered, and Cora only nodded slightly in response.

The house was bathed in a soft light when the motor pulled them up to the front walk. Both silent, they exited the car and made their way back inside, trudging like two soldiers returning from battle. Cora's shoulders slumped perceptibly and when she gripped the railing of the staircase, it was as though she held on desperately for balance.

"—Cora?" He called out quietly, taking a step toward the staircase. He caught himself rather by surprise; he knew prolonging the inevitable would only make things more difficult, but regardless he felt some unidentifiable urge to somehow change their course. She looked down at him in question and so he continued, "I might delay my crossing a few days, if you think it very important that we attend the party. I…I would not want you to have to answer any uncomfortable questions about my whereabouts."

She paused at her place on the third step and looked into his eyes, her own still glistening in the evening light. "I would appreciate that," she replied, "but you needn't change your plans for that."

"It isn't a bother, really," he lied. Of course it would be a bother, a terrible one at that. It would mean him wandering around the house and walking on perpetual eggshells for even longer than he planned. When he arrived it had been different; he did not mind the eternal trapeze act if it was all in an attempt to win his wife's affection back. It gave him purpose. But now he'd neither her affection nor attention—all he had were papers that needed to be signed.

"Well, if you're quite sure," she allowed, still rooted in place. When he turned to move, thinking perhaps a glass of whisky might put his mind at ease, he heard her add, "Robert, I wonder—"

"Yes?"

She blushed, seemingly surprised that he'd turned around. "I—I wonder if we might…" she trailed off again, staring at her shoes for a moment before looking back up. "Nothing, it's nothing."

"Alright, then," he answered, and moved to walk away again.

"Has Murray sent those papers?" She called, her voice less steady than it had sounded only moments before.

Once more, he turned to face her. And he looked up, looked at her shoes and dress and hands and face, wondering why it all needed to be so terribly difficult. Shaking his head he pursed his lips and ran a hand absentmindedly through his hair. "No," he said softly, "no he hasn't."

Satisfied, Cora shrugged ever so slightly and replied, "well goodnight then, Robert."

And he watched her walk up the stairs, then murmured "goodnight, Cora," more to himself than her, as she disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The name of the song used in this chapter is "What'll I do?" by Irving Berlin. The song was released in 1924, so I am claiming some creative flexibility!

* * *

Robert brushed the shoulders of his suit as carefully as possible. He felt rather odd going to a garden party in such a heavy black suit, but he'd not packed any of his linen ones before leaving England and it was too early to transition out of mourning clothes, anyway. He wondered, smoothing down an errant lock of hair, what Cora might be wearing—some of their fondest memories together were at their garden parties over the years; it had always been Cora's very favorite event to plan. They'd not reinstated the tradition, since the end of the war, and sometimes he thought it had been a mistake.

Or perhaps after such tragedy, some things were simply lost for good.

He fixed his handkerchief in his pocket and looked once more at his reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, getting along without a valet was less trying that he once might have thought. And he was glad, really, that he'd dismissed Bates and Anna from Downton's dark halls before things got too terribly grim. Soon after they left, they purchased a small inn on the main street in Thirsk. Bates had written him to say as much; he'd never written back. But he was glad for them all the same.

Robert was rather astonished that he was still attending the garden party with Cora. After dinner with the Harris', he thought perhaps there was a chance for him and Cora to speak—not just talk at one another, but to speak and really listen. But then, so soon after their dinner, they'd had another argument. And, frighteningly, it rivaled the one he'd tried so very hard to block out of his mind from weeks earlier.

_He intended to go to the library for a drink and then straight up to bed. He'd watched her walk up the stairs and disappear down the hallway; it was rather late and their night had been a long one. But as Robert stared into the decanter of whisky in the library, all he could think of was Cora. _

_She'd asked him to stay. Asked him to stay and attend that party with her. And for the first time in weeks, he felt something more akin to hope than despair. So he put down the almost untouched glass he'd poured—which he knew would please her—and turned on his heels to go find his wife again, emboldened by the few sips of scotch he had taken._

_Her bewildered expression when she opened her bedroom door should have been enough to deter him, but of course it was not. He looked into her eyes and saw past the flicker of confusion; he saw Cora, as he always saw her, and wanted desperately to hold her. But he certainly had more sense than to try that. So he smiled, his hand resting against the frame of the door, and asked, "might I come in?" _

_The way her brow furrowed should have stopped him from saying any more, saved him from the inevitable embarrassment he was about to step into. When she tilted her head and asked, "why?" All he could do—despite realizing how ridiculous it must have looked—was smile and shrug. _

"_I thought we could talk," was his answer, and he looked past her shoulder to see the dim glow of her oil lamps. It was such a small thing, really, but he thought it was a good sign that she had not yet gone to bed. Yes, perhaps she was waiting up for him. _

_But if she had been, she had no interest in showing it. She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her, covering up any inch of skin that might be revealed to him, and shook her head. "I'm tired," she explained._

_That had truly confused him. _

_He was doing everything right. Everything he could do to make her happy, he did it. He was kind and polite, he did not push her and yet somehow, continually, she made him feel as though he was doing something terribly wrong. As irrational, or childish, as it might have been, he felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, a flare of anger that had long been extinguished, or so he though. _

"_Why must you be so mean to me?" he whined, still leaning against the doorframe. _

_Cora only laughed sardonically, rolling her eyes as she fixed him with an irritated stare. "Have you been drinking?" she asked, taking a half step closer. _

_Her close proximity should have delighted him, but he winced when he realized what she was doing—and that she could undoubtedly smell the whiskey on his breath. "I haven't been drinking," he replied, standing up more fully to face her. "I had a sip of whiskey but then came back here to speak with you." _

"_A sip?" she asked. Her brow furrowed again and she shook her head. "I can smell the alcohol on your breath, Robert. Don't think you can just wander up here intoxicated and disturb me at all hours of the night!" _

_If he'd more than a few seconds to gather his thoughts, he might have reacted differently. But the way Cora gripped the door, the way her eyes darkened when they fell upon him, it occurred to him rather quickly that not only was she not interested in speaking to him, she still did not trust him. _

"_Bloody Hell!" he cried, throwing both his hands up in the air. "What do you want from me?" The sharp tones of his voice reverberated down the hallway and he knew it had likely disturbed the entire house. Cora stood there stock still and opened her mouth slightly, but no words came. _

"_I think you should go to your room," she replied softly, after a pause. _

_But he did not care for her soft words or suggestions; he was tired of being handled and placated with false kindness and attention given at arm's length. "No, I will not!" he shouted, pacing a few steps away from the door. "I'm not a child, or some pet that you can continually nudge away with the toe of your boot—in case you have forgotten, Cora, we are married and I am tired, so very tired, of being treated like a monster—" _

_He was still pacing, his head spinning, when she stepped out into the hallway, slamming her door and drawing him out of his ranting. "How dare you say that to me," she replied coldly, "you've some nerve painting yourself as the blameless party." If she was still attempting to appear indifferent, it was a terrible failure, for her cheeks were bright red and her hands clamped into angry fists, nails pressing into her palms. And when he reached out to take her hand, a desperate attempt at contact, she lurched backward and looked up, red-faced, and screamed, "you told me to leave! You told me I never belonged there—" taking another step backward, away from him, she looked wild-eyed, and yet somehow, still, so terribly sad. _

"_I didn't mean it, Cora, good god, after everything we've been through, after every day and week and year, how could you think I meant it?" With his back against the door, he sunk slowly to the ground, holding his head in both his hands. "How could you leave me?" he asked, looking up at her just as he began to cry. _

_He watched the expression on her face shift almost immediately, and if he had ever been too proud to want her sympathy, or pity, he cared little about pride when she padded close to him and knelt down, wrapping her arms around his shaking body._

_They remained like that for untold minutes until the sound of a footman approaching from the main staircase startled them out of their silent reverie. Cora's body tensed and she stood, assuring the footman that everything was quite alright. She stood until the young man disappeared back down the hallway, and then she held her hand out to him, looking softly at him when he stood too. _

_She led him not into her bedroom but back down the hallway to his own. She lowered the oil lamp to just a dim flicker and nodded at the bed, gesturing for him to sit. And then, still silent, she approached cautiously and sat on the very edge of the mattress, looking up at him. _

"_Robert, we cannot keep hurting one another like this," she said in a near-whisper. _

"_But I don't want to hurt you," he answered, attempting to stand back up. She stilled his movements, though, with a press of her hand to his chest. _

"_I—I think we need time," she continued, her hand still brushing against him. "Time apart." _

"_But, Cora—" _

"_I don't think we need to sign those papers," she interrupted, "I don't want to sign them. Not really. But I want you to go back to Downton and then perhaps in a few months we can see where things are?" _

_Robert shook his head, tears stinging his eyes once more. "No, that isn't what I want." _

"_But right now, that is what I need," Cora answered. _

_He said little more after that. Fighting seemed ineffectual, and tiring. When he chanced a look at them both in the mirror across the room, they looked so very tired. And Cora stood a moment later, her hand sliding off the fabric of his dress shirt, and she nodded goodnight, leaving him no choice but to let her go. _

The days following their argument, if it could be called that, were quiet and without conflict. Well, without outward conflict, at least. Each morning when Robert woke he wondered if he should try once more to press her into another conversation. But then when he would see her, at breakfast or by chance in the library, he could see the way her smile pinched and how her shoulders slumped. She had told him what she wanted. And now, he needed to let her have it.

So he went ahead with the plans for his crossing, to take place on the Saturday immediately following the garden party. There were, apparently, fewer ships leaving Newport this late in the summer and so he'd agreed to board a slightly smaller ship that would make a one-night stopover in Ireland on the way back to Liverpool. The irony was most certainly not lost on him.

But he tried not to think about that, even now as he stood and made the final adjustments to his suit, the reflection of his packed luggage continually catching his eye in the mirror. He promised her that he would escort her to the garden party, and so that it precisely what he would do.

* * *

The floral notes of the hydrangeas and lilacs perfumed the air of Angela Whitmore's gardens. The warm summer afternoon gave way to a pleasant summer evening and by the time Robert and Cora arrived at the fete, the sun was turning the sky a delightful shade of pink.

Cora looked around, noting the large white tent and the countless flickering candles already set up to stage the scene. It was lovely, and reminded her so very much of the parties they once threw at Downton. But it had been years since a proper garden party had graced their lawns; frivolities like that had given way to wartime frugality and then post-war somberness. So it had been years, then, since she walked around a large party on her husband's arm, dressed in a light summer dress and sipping on honeyed punch.

Robert looked terribly handsome, as he nearly always did, when she found him waiting for her in the foyer at the house. He'd smiled brightly and complimented her new dress—this one a light navy-colored linen. But she could see the tension resting around his eyes, and could feel the restraint in his touch when he helped her into the motor. It hurt her to know just how much she had wounded him, how far she had forced him to fall. It was enough to make her ill, if she thought of it too much. And she was rather surprised that he was still willing to escort her to the party, even after the terrible row they'd had nearly a week before.

She paused and smiled as Robert excused himself with the excuse of getting another drink. But her smile was just as false as his, for she knew almost everything she told herself was an utter lie. She was not at all surprised that he'd stayed. And if she feigned surprise when he first arrived in Newport for her weeks before, that too was a lie. Thirty-four years of marriage gave her particular insight into Robert Crawley. She knew that his favorite color was blue, that he liked ginger biscuits after dinner (and often before), and she knew which books in their library were his favorites. But she also knew, though she was loath to admit it, how he felt about her. She knew he would come, if even it took months or years, because they had promised so very long ago that it would be death that parted them—nothing else. But somehow all of that, their promises and memories, was warped with the pain of death.

In losing Sybil, Cora had allowed herself to be lost as well.

And it was another painful truth that had become glaringly obvious after seeing the pain twisted across her husband's face time and time again. She wouldn't—couldn't—ask him to stay any longer. Because she loved him, she would let him go back to Downton, which he loved, until she was strong enough to face the future.

Perhaps that was a lie, too.

It was not because she loved him that she would let him go. Yes, she loved him with the pained sort of affection that kept her awake and made her insides turn. But letting him go was decidedly selfish, for she was not quite ready to move on with it all. As childish and unkind as it made her, it would be easier to stay in Newport and forget every pain buried and hidden away back at Downton. She wanted to be free of it, for at least a while longer.

Cora sat on a chaise toward the back of the tent, watching children run past and adults laugh over trifling jokes. It was so blissfully peaceful to be in such a large crowd of strangers; there was no one to inquire about her feelings or delve into personal details. She could sip her punch and stare at the lovely people in their lovely clothes for as long as she liked without interruption.

But she didn't think it an interruption when she felt someone tap her shoulder, as she expected her husband to return with his punch. And she had already made a concerted effort to be as kind as she possibly could, for fear of upsetting him—or herself—again. It was not Robert, though, but Angela Whitmore who tapped her lightly before taking the seat beside her on the chaise.

"My dear, I am so very glad you made it," she greeted.

"Thank you for having us," Cora smiled, reaching a hand out to press Angela's warmly.

"Us?" Mrs. Whitmore raised a brow and smirked at Cora. "Well, well, my dear, it appears your mother is not always right."

Cora frowned, leaning forward a bit, and asked, "what do you mean?"

Chuckling, Mrs. Whitmore sipped her own drink and shrugged. "Well, I spoke to Martha on the telephone and she was most distraught last week. Going on and on about how you were _ruining your life," _she explained, imitating the last bit in an impression of Martha's voice.

"My mother is not one to withhold hysterics," Cora mused.

"No, she is not," Mrs. Whitmore conceded with a chuckle. "But my dear, I am glad to see you and Robert here together."

"He's leaving for England in the morning," Cora answered, looking straight ahead. She spotted her husband's figure easily, a familiar shape in the crowd, and watched him chatting with another gentleman over by the punch bowl.

"Is he, then?" Mrs. Whitmore asked.

"Yes."

"Cora, dear, I hope you do not mind me saying so, but are you quite sure you want to stay here?"

"Careful now," Cora replied, laughing softly, her eyes still on Robert, "you're beginning to sound quite like my mother."

Mrs. Whitmore smiled, standing up as she waved to a passing guest. "I'm simply saying, my dear, that life is so very short and full of surprises—good and bad. And so often we regret the things we didn't do, more than the things we did."

Finally looking away from her husband, Cora's gaze turned upward as she smiled, standing to embrace Mrs. Whitmore warmly. "You're very wise, and I hope you don't think me ungrateful," Cora said.

"No, not ungrateful," she answered, kissing Cora's cheek. "Just a little lost. But I have every faith that you shall find your way." And with that she smiled once more, and turned to walk in the other direction, back toward the more bustling area of the tent.

Cora sat back and set her gaze back on Robert, just as he shook the gentleman's hand and began to cross the small dance floor back toward her. He smiled, holding up his glass of punch as he approached, and took the seat beside her that Mrs. Whitmore had just occupied. "It's a nice party," he said, but Cora was too busy focusing on the weight of him beside her, the way it felt to sit so close to him. For a moment she thought she could just lose herself in the comforting sensation but he pressed his hand over top of hers, setting his glass down on the small table beside them.

"Would you like to dance?" he prompted, nodding toward the dance area. There was a small group of musicians playing songs neither of them recognized; it was mostly popular American music and Cora was not quite sure what sort of dance they could even manage but she nodded, and stood to take Robert's outstretched hand.

He led her onto the cleared area where several other couples spun around the floor; their lovely summer dresses grazing the bright summer grass. Robert's palm rested against her lower back as her hand slid up his arm and came to rest atop his shoulder. Moving to the gentle tones of the music, neither spoke as they swayed about, Robert's steps leading them in the paces of a familiar dance. It was Cora who first noticed the words of the singer, intoning softly.

_What'll I do _

_When you are far away _

_And I am blue _

_What'll I do? _

She clutched his jacket just a bit tighter, and leaned her head in close enough to breathe in the scent of his cologne. He must have been listening, too, for as the singer continued along, she felt the hand on her back press her closer to him, his head bent down nearly to meet her own as they danced.

_What'll I do? _

_When I am wond'ring who _

_Is kissing you _

_What'll I do? _

_What'll I do with just a photograph _

_To tell my troubles to? _

_When I'm alone _

_With only dreams of you _

_That won't come true _

_What'll I do?_

Cora felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks and she pulled herself closer to her husband, not realizing that they were hardly even moving along to the music anymore. All she could feel was the strength of his hands, holding her so securely she knew that she would never fall. When the song was over, so quickly she could scarcely believe it, Robert stepped back and released his hold, gesturing with one hand back toward the chaise. "Would you like to go back and sit?"

Cora cleared her throat, looking up at her husband, and shook her head. "No, I—do you think we might go home?"

"Of course," he answered, extending his arm once more. And just as they'd entered, Cora curled her arm around Robert's and allowed him to lead her down the candlelit paths back toward the entrance of the house.

* * *

The house was quiet when they returned. Most of the lamps were dim and only the butler was still up and about to let them in. He bid them both a warm goodnight, though, and left them alone in the foyer. It was not terribly late, but late enough that the moon and stars were visible through the tall windows beside the doorway. And reflecting the relative lateness of the hour, Cora yawned as she removed her shawl, draping it loosely on the entryway table.

"Might I escort you to your room?" Robert asked, observing her yawn. Then, as if he realized his words could be construed as overly-forward, he amended, "I just meant to bed—I…I apologize," he said with a note of teasing, "I only meant to your door."

Cora smiled, leaving her hat beside her scarf, and replied, "yes, I know what you meant." She took a step forward and curled her arm around his once more, adding, "you may escort me, then," to prompt him.

They walked up the stairs without haste, taking each one together until they reached the top. "I wonder…" Robert paused, halting his words and movement, and looked to his wife.

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow…I wonder if I might wake you before I go?" He blushed, his candid words leaving him vulnerable to her, and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. But his wife looked anything but angry. If he were forced to peg the emotion written across her face, he would guess pain or sadness.

"Yes, of course," she whispered hoarsely. And they continued walking down the hall, until they reached her bedroom door.

He stood, waiting for her to look back at him, and then cleared his throat once more. "Could I perhaps write to you, once I'm back?"

Cora looked down at the carpet, not moving for a long moment. When she did look up again she replied without hesitation, "yes, please write to me," and waited for his response.

Not waiting to gauge her expression any further, Robert leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, breathing in the delicate scent of her lavender perfume and holding his lips against her soft skin for a beat longer than might be acceptable. If it was to be his last, he wanted to make it a most wonderful last. But before he could tilt his head up, whisper an endearment, a goodbye, an anything into her ear, he felt Cora's hands reach up to grasp his lapels, a choked sob emitting from her throat.

"Oh, Robert," her voice was gravelly and punctuated with stifled tears as she looked into his eyes. "I don't know what I've done," she said with ragged breath, clinging to his suit jacket as he tentatively wrapped his arms around her. "I am so terribly sorry…I…I never wanted to hurt you," she murmured, reaching up to wipe her eyes. And then, with the hand that brushed away her tears, she reached out and brushed her fingers lightly across his jaw and chin, urging his head forward until their lips met in a passionate kiss.

Cora felt her body come aflame at Robert's lips on hers, the press of his hands on her waist. Any hesitation he may have felt at her touch was soon brushed away as she pulled his body close to hers, reaching behind her to grasp the door handle and let them into her bedroom.

Stepping out of her grasp, Robert turned to close the door behind them and looked intently at her, asking "are you quite sure?" before he stepped any closer.

Cora murmured "yes," softly, and closed the gap between them once more, reaching up to help shrug him out of his jacket and undo the tight knot of his tie. She unclasped the pin and let it rest on the bedside table along with his cufflinks. He was down to just his trousers when Cora finally paused her ministrations, turning around and asking, "might you help me?"

She need not explicate any further, for countless nights in their bedroom had made him keenly aware of what his wife needed. So Robert set about unclasping the tiny buttons running up the back of her dress, taking great care with each successive clasp. He was surprised to find a light, cream-colored chemise beneath her dress, and felt almost embarrassed at the way his body reacted to the feel of the delicate silk against her pale, porcelain skin.

Once her dress and corset were unlaced, she turned to face him, setting her eyes upon him for the briefest of seconds before her fingers dipped to his waist, unclasping his belt and then making quick work of his trousers, which he stepped out of a moment later. He tried to restrain himself, only releasing a low groan when Cora's fingers brushed over his arousal, and took a few deep breaths although his body already throbbed with anticipation.

Cora removed the last of her jewelry, setting it on the table beside Robert's discarded items, and then stepped forward, hoping he might finish the task of undressing her. And he was more than happy to oblige. His fingers found the straps of her chemise and pulled them carefully from her shoulder, his lips replacing the spot they had only just occupied. She shivered at his touch, leaning in to press their bodies closer, and wrapped her arms around him as his lips continued to explore the sensitive expanse of her throat.

And then, with the removal of a few more garments, Robert lifted his wife and carried her to the bed. The low light of her bedside lamp provided soft ambiance for their coupling. Bodies side by side, hands and fingers and lips began to slowly relearn the paths they'd traced so many times before. Robert felt his body grow heavy and pleasure laden as Cora's fingers pressed into his sides, drawing up and down as her lips sucked lazily on his own, their tongues tentatively brushing every so often. And his touch only continued to inflame her, matched with the quiet adorations he whispered into her ear and against her skin.

_So beautiful._

_I need you._

_I love you._

Each word she imbibed only spurned her own ministrations; she was already intoxicated by his nearness. She scraped her nails up and down his abdomen, shivering at the feel of the soft hair on his chest beneath her fingers. When they dipped lower again, palming his arousal, she was undeniably pleased to find she could still provoke such a strong reaction in him. Robert's gentle grunts as she wrapped her fingers around him, moving her hand up and down, knowing the sensitive spots that would make him come undone, aroused her to no end. And when he murmured the desperation of his need into her ear, begging for more, she was not very far behind him.

When their eyes met again, dark with desire and overwhelmed with sensory delight, he knew it was his turn. As carefully as he laid kisses to her neck and removed her gown, Robert turned his wife until she was beneath him, her thighs coming up to grip his hips and her heels resting against his behind. He looked into her eyes once more, wanting her consent, which she gave in the form of another gentle kiss, bringing her hands to cup his cheeks and encourage his head close to hers.

When he entered her, she whimpered audibly, causing him to open his eyes, the fear that he might have caused her pain etched across his face. "No, no, it's alright," she answered his silent question, and kissing him again she confirmed her desire for him to continue, slowly rocking his hips forward as he thrust into her.

Her hips undulated to the slow rhythm he created, their bodies moving together in a well-practiced sort of dance. Robert slipped a hand to her face, trailing slowly past her neck until it rested atop her chest, his large palm covering her breast as his fingers drummed methodically against her skin.

It was Cora whose movements grew faster, more intent. He could tell by the flush of her skin, and the way her teeth bit into her swollen lips, that she was nearly spent. Dropping a hand to meet the place where they joined, Robert's thumb pressed circles into her skin, moving faster as she cried out with strangled pleasure.

Robert followed her a moment later, rocking into her once, twice, and a third time before he too was pushed over the edge and spilled inside of her. Their bodies, slick with perspiration, pressed together down into the soft mattress. Robert held his wife close, running his hands absentmindedly up and down her back. Cora's head rested against his chest and she listened to the rhythmic thumping of his heart up against her ear. She let her fingers splay out across his belly and scratched her nails lazily against his overheated skin.

Her eyes felt heavy, and her body warm and boneless. "Robert?" she murmured, but the sound of her voice was half-coated with sleep.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, humming "shhh," in response, still stroking her back as she closed her eyes again, sleep claiming her before any words could pass her lips.

* * *

He did not sleep all night. He lay, listening as the clock ticked methodically, and gazed at his wife, relishing in the feel of her skin and the soft sounds of her breathing against his chest.

The sun had only just risen when he slipped from beneath the sheets, untangling himself from Cora as carefully as he could manage. Her body was warm from sleep and the wave of cool air that hit as he stood was a cruel reminder of what he already did not have. But it was morning now, and time to leave her be—even though it made him feel as though someone was stepping directly on his chest.

He gathered up his clothes from the floor and slipped them on. He pocketed his cufflinks and pin from the bedside table, and knelt once more so that he might kiss her lips, savoring the connection, as brief as it was.

He turned and looked back at the door, just after clicking it shut, lamenting all that he'd lost and all that he was bound still to lose. But he had little time to lament, for that morning he had a ship to board.


	13. Chapter 13

Cora awoke to the sound of a bird chirping merrily outside her window. Stretching her legs beneath the sheets and clutching her pillow a bit tighter, she felt her muscles ache in response and a dull soreness between her legs. It took several seconds, undoubtedly because she'd not opened her eyes yet, for the memories of the previous night to come flooding back. And when she cracked one eye open ever so slightly, the sight of her bare skin under the blankets confirmed those memories.

Smiling, she stretched out her limbs once more and rolled over, reaching a hand across the bed to find her husband. The feel of a cool, empty place beside her forced her other eye open and her head off the pillow.

Empty.

The other side of the bed was empty, not even so much as an indentation left in the pillow to mark Robert's presence. Had it been a dream? She nearly laughed at her hazy response—it had most certainly not been a dream. As logical thought began to permeate her sleepy mind, she called out for him, knowing he was likely just in the washroom. But her _"Robert?" _garnered no response. And so sitting up more fully, she brushed the errant curls away from her face and wiped the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.

And the she remembered.

_I wonder if I might wake you before I go?_

_Could I perhaps write to you?_

His crossing back to England. She chided herself for being so thoughtless. Robert was terribly methodical about his appointments and such. He'd no doubt gotten up early enough to alert the staff to his change in plans and was likely overseeing the unpacking of his trunks. Perhaps, though, she'd woken early enough for them to have breakfast together. So, padding across the room, she plucked her silk dressing gown and nightclothes off the hook and slipped them on, not wanting to go through the trouble of changing just for a quiet breakfast with her husband. If she were lucky, and for the first time in a rather long time she thought she was, she might even be able to convince him back to bed to take their breakfast there.

The hallways were silent as Cora made the short walk to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. She clicked open the door, after listening outside the room for any sounds or movement within, but Robert's room was silent and there were no clothes strewn about or open cases on the floor. In fact, none of his things were out at all. She wondered fleetingly how he managed to unpack everything so quickly and swallowed the pang of fear that unwittingly grew in her stomach.

Breakfast, it seemed, was already happening downstairs. She would have to get on a more regular sleeping schedule if she wanted to wake early enough to dine with Robert. Sleep, surprisingly, seemed attainable for once; and as she walked down the main staircase to find Robert and procure some tea and toast, the prospect of a happy morning seemed within her reach as well. It was a precarious happiness, yes, but where else were they to start? They could start slowly, with breakfast and conversation, with little steps treaded carefully.

She reached the door to the dining room and pushed it open with great flourish, a smile already pulling at her lips. She scoffed audibly, though, when she found the room dark and completely empty. She rang the bell for the butler, for anyone really, over and over until a footman—followed quickly by the butler—came rushing into the room.

"Where is my husband?" Cora demanded, finally releasing her tight grasp on the cord.

The butler looked strangely at her, as if there were some element he had missed, and she felt that same pang of fear burbling up once more. He cleared his throat, reaching into his jacket pocket, and extracted a letter, which he handed to her. "He left this for you, Milady," and when Cora took the envelope, waving the staff away with a brief swish of her hand, she was left alone once more.

She tore open the paper more roughly than she would an ordinary note and sank down into the nearest dining chair as she began to read.

_Cora,_

_I know we agreed that I would wake you before I left, but you looked so very peaceful and I couldn't bear to disturb you. I hope this is not too forward of me to say, but I would regret leaving it unsaid. Last night, our time together, was more wonderful than I could have ever imagined it being. And perhaps now we must, as you said, give it time, but I will carry the memory with me always. Darling, I don't say any of this to attempt to sway you, or coerce you into something you do not truly want; it is another reason I did not wake you—I would hate for our last moments together to be uncomfortable or for you to feel badly. I know I am guilty of more mistakes than I can count, a great deal of which have caused you pain. Please know that I will endeavor to abide by your wishes and shall not stand in the way of what you want in future, whatever if may be. _

_Love,_

_Robert_

Cora was vaguely aware of a painful pounding in her head as she reread the last lines, grasping the pages so tightly that the edges began to crinkle and tear under the strain of her pull. Standing, she felt lightheaded and needed to hold the table for support. She looked at the clock—it was after ten o'clock.

It was a quarter to eleven by the time she reached the docks and was told the ship heading for England departed at nine o'clock.

It was after twelve when she returned to the house, alone.

The stairs to her bedroom seemed too onerous a task, so she sank onto the settee in the library, curling into herself as she lay flat against the cushions, her head still pounding horribly and her stomach in knots.

The clocked ticked rhythmically, mocking her tardiness. She was too late. This time it was too late. He was not upstairs waiting for her to come around; he was not strolling in the gardens, hoping perhaps she might join him. He was in a room on a ship somewhere in the ocean without her. He was on a ship because she told him to go, never realizing the day might come when he actually would.

And then the tears came, stinging her cheeks as they trailed hotly down her skin and soaked the expensive fabric of the settee. She cried, holding herself, and cried until her body shook with the effort of it. When her tears stopped, finally, she happened to catch the sight of a clock in the corner, surprised to find only ten minutes had passed.

This was how it would go, she realized. Time slowed down, everything slowed down now, as she saw it all so clearly. The blur that her life had become, a dark mass of grief and anger, all it did was insulate her from the outside world, a desperate attempt for emotional recovery. But it was a failure, for she felt no better than she had the night Sybil died. She had lost everything now, it seemed; but this time, the fault was all her own.

Minutes slipped by at an alarmingly slow pace.

She thought she might go crazy if she listened to the _tick, tick _noise for a second longer, so she dragged her body up from the settee and stood to leave. She looked down to realize she was still clutching the pages of his letter, though now they were a mangled mess of paper and ink. She read the lines again, though by now she could remember his words by heart. She thought of him packing his cases and leaving at the first light of morning, she thought of him boarding the ship and of him eventually reaching the docks at Liverpool. She thought of him alone at Downton and wanted to claw at her skin, the ache in her chest was so blunt.

It was too much, she knew, and her vacant eyes reflected back at her in the main hall mirror confirmed that the only task she was fit for was sleep. She took the steps one at a time, slowly, until she reached the top. She turned and looked behind her, at the great empty hall, and thought it would be easier to hurl herself down the stairs than it would be to try to sleep.

Her bedroom was like the scene of a horrific crime. When she stepped into the room, saw the unmade bed and her clothes still scattered about from the night before it was all she could do to keep herself from vomiting. The room was bright and airy, it knew nothing of the pain encased within. She hated the wrinkled sheets and the delicate undergarments on the floor. She hated it all so very much. She went instead to his room—his former room—and lay down atop the already made blankets. They were soft and warm, and smelled of his cologne. She could close her eyes here and ease the pounding in her head and the throbbing ache in her chest.

She shut her eyes as tight as she could and tried not to think.

She fell asleep, having failed again, with thoughts of moving to New York, staying with her mother, and perhaps returning to Downton for Christmas floating about in her head.


	14. Chapter 14

The sea breeze felt cool and salty against his skin. Much of his days on the ship were spent outside, for his small cabin—small, though it was likely among the largest on the ship—felt condensed and uncomfortable. So he strolled around the decks, more times than he could count, and tried to sit on benches and read as the days slipped by.

He'd left Newport in the morning, the sun bright and warm as the ship pulled away from the docks. He'd stood back, allowing the people who had loved ones back ashore his place by the railing, so that they might wave goodbye. In that moment, that solitary moment of watching others have what he wanted so desperately, he regretted not waking her. And even more, he regretted ever leaving that house without her.

But as one day at sea turned to two, and that to three, he lost the achy feeling that plagued him so often, finding that it instead hid in the depths of his chest and resurfaced only fleetingly, when he let his mind wander. Instead he tried to busy his mind, allowing himself but a few moments of longing in the mornings and at night when he looked at her photograph and wondered again if he had made a mistake.

He felt safer, in a way, locked up on a ship. There was little he could do to muddle the situation further and he was allowed to be alone with himself, ruminating on their last days together.

He ruminated on those last days—well, day—far more than one might consider gentlemanly.

Oh how he ruminated.

He thought of her hair, the way it tumbled down her shoulders when released from the silver pins. He thought of her pale skin that reflected the white moonlight and glimmered against his own. He thought of her lips, swollen and pressed against him. And he thought of her eyes, fixed to his as they silently communicated everything that had been lost between them.

It drove him to distraction, when he let it. And each time he wondered, again, if he had made a mistake. But he told himself no; she asked him to go. She asked him calmly, with conviction that only Cora held, to give her time and to give her space.

He knew his wife better than he knew anyone else. But he would never claim to know her better than she knew herself. So he had left. Packed up his cases, slipped a note for her onto the main entryway table, and left.

It was the fourth night of the journey back to England. He knew what he was getting into when he procured his ticket, but he could not pretend to be very pleased that there would still be an overnight stop in Ireland—it would only delay the inevitability of his return and force him to spend an extra night on the horribly dull ship.

But tonight he decided it was time to make plans. And he liked to be methodical about things like this. He had an early dinner in the ship's dining room—it was still hard dining alone without copious amounts of liquor for company, but he was getting more used to it as of late—and then retired to his room with the inkwell and pen he requested from a passing steward.

He scrawled line after line of thoughts built up over the last weeks and months. Before…before Sybil had died, Matthew asked over and over about restructuring the estate; he'd drawn up plans and made meetings, all of which Robert brushed off in an attempt at glossing over what lay beneath their well-manicured estate. But now, in the absence of thinking about Cora, his mind turned over the ideas, and he saw far more clearly how right Matthew had been.

That was first on the list. Speak to Mary and Matthew. He wanted to speak to Mary first, really, and perhaps it was true that he harbored tender feelings for his eldest born that the others had seen. But she was so like him, he'd always known, and he needed to make her understand. Understand what exactly, he was not sure. But he needed them back at Downton, taking their places as co-masters of the estate. If he was to be without Cora, for however long that might be, he needed them there to steady him.

And then Edith, his sweet and sensitive middle born. She was the least angry with him, he thought, but he often underestimated the depth and breadth of her feelings. It was his fatal flaw with her, he knew; he underestimated her, and it would likely take more than kind words to truly smooth things over. He wanted her back at Downton, too, but knew she loved London. He suspected she loved more than London, and felt his fists clench up reflexively when thoughts of a certain editor came to mind, but he would leave all that to Cora. She was always better at these sorts of troubles. He made a note on his ink-spotted pages to mention this in the first letter he would write to Cora.

He knew there was still more to do. He would need to speak with Rosamund and apologize for his behavior. Mama would likely be more difficult; she did nothing in halves and would hold a grudge longer than most. But eventually she would come around.

But they were on the lesser scale of worry for him. Robert knew, or hoped at least, that his family would come around. If he could keep from drinking himself mad again, and take his place back at Downton, they would support him. They stuck together, ultimately, and he knew that they would.

But looking at his pages he knew his omission was glaring. He tried telling himself it was not a matter of concern, but that was a lie. It was of the upmost concern. It was the one facet of his plans that would likely determine all the rest. Branson, he knew, would be the one snag in it all. Again. And he cursed himself for thinking that way; he frowned like a scolded child when he thought of how displeased Cora would be if she knew how he thought of it. But she would be wrong if she thought he was successful in ignoring it completely; Tom Branson somehow made his way into his thoughts more often than he was willing to admit.

The idea had come to him during a walk in the gardens in Newport.

It seemed a mad plan at first, but the more he thought about it the more he thought it might be mad enough to work. The estate was in need of a new manager. Jarvis, in a fit of anger after Robert had stumbled into the library in a whisky-induced stupor for one of their meetings, had quit. It was very likely when Robert returned the entire estate would be overgrown and in disarray. They would need a new estate manager. And, as disturbed as the idea still made him, that estate manager could be Tom Branson.

He'd not said anything to Cora for fear of splitting open her still healing wounds. It was the reason she'd left, he knew. If Tom and the baby had stayed at Downton, Cora would have too. For Sybil's sake she would have ghosted around the house, ignoring him and doting on her grandchild.

Branson would likely say no. More than likely he would tell him to go to hell. He probably deserved that, Branson's ire. He was, after all, still mentally referring to him as Branson. And he'd not made it easy for them; at the time he could hardly bear the thought of having an Irish grandchild. But now, with so many things lost to the wind, he would like nothing more than to see the tiny baby who undoubtedly looked quite like her mother.

So Branson, too, was added to the list.

As he folded up his pages of notes, he wondered it if made him selfish to ask Branson back partly because he hoped it would draw Cora, too, back to Downton. And he wondered if this small caveat indicated more than he would concede it did. He was, after all, supposed to give her space, not plot ways to bring her back under false pretenses. And anyway, Cora too was already in his notes. If she were not back—or on her way back by Christmas, he would return to Newport or New York to see her. She could have her space, so long as he could anticipate seeing her.

It was rather early for bed but as there was little to do on a ship besides wander the deck or drink whisky to pass the time, Robert slipped on his nightclothes and settled into the small bed, ready for sleep. Thoughts of seeing Cora in New York at Christmas floated around his head until sleep finally claimed him, somewhere out in the deep, black ocean still so terribly far from Downton and inching, by the second, even farther away from his wife.


	15. Chapter 15

"So much for an English summer," Robert muttered to himself, staring out the rain-soaked window of the hired car.

Several things had occurred to him upon his arrival in Liverpool, the first being that he should have perhaps arranged some sort of transportation back to Downton before he left Newport. The skies had certainly opened up in celebration—or, dismay—for his return. When he stood on the deck of the ship, remembering the few times he had done so with his family, the dark grey skies seemed appropriate for his mood and state of mind. Again, there was no one on the dock waving to greet him, no family to round up and help off the ship, and no familiar faces to greet.

Even the best-laid plans, it seemed, were subject to unforeseen circumstance. Robert still had the splotchy pages of notes from days earlier; they were tucked safely into his jacket pocket, however it had been at least two days since he looked at them. What seemed so clear and well plotted whilst on the ship seemed rather laborious and unpleasant in the light of day. All his scribblings were just mad ideas, he'd no idea how he would undertake them all on his own. As he sat in the back of the car and watched the rain patter against the windowpane, his suit jacket and hat soaked from standing outside for too long, he wondered if he had overestimated his capacity for change.

The boat ride from Newport had started inconsequentially. It was boring at best but the time had passed well enough with a good book or notes to ponder and edit. But after his great burst of productive energies, things became stagnant. As the ship sailed closer and closer to England, familiar pangs of doubt began implanting themselves into his thoughts. Edith and Rosamund were still in London; that would mean a train ride and another stay at the God-awful club if he were to speak to them right away. Mama was still in Scotland, which would be a far more involved trek, and Mary, his darling daughter, could hold a grudge even longer than he could. And there was still the matter of seeking out Branson, something he was entirely unsure how to do.

By the time the ship docked in the small Irish port…Tralee, or something, Robert was quite ready to be home. But alas, he had, in a moment of particular amenability, agreed to this longer crossing with an overnight stop. Some of the passengers ventured off the ship. He watched them from the deck, wondering what on Earth they thought they would find worth the walk in such a far—flung little place. He was content to stay on the ship and enjoy his dinner, still mulling over his plans for Downton and his family. The night passed slower than the others, no gentle rocking to put him to sleep, but it had passed without great interest. It had been but a small inconvenience, at the start. But somehow, still not entirely clear to him, one night turned into two. Getting a clear answer from anyone on the crew was a fool's mission; not one person seemed to know exactly what was going on. And by the time they finally set back out to sea, a day and a half later than expected, the only explanation he was provided was that there had been some trouble loading and unloading cargo at the port.

It was really a most disturbing interlude and only made his desire to return to Downton intensify. Then there had been rain, though, and a lack of transportation. There had been bargaining with the taxi-cab driver and there had been entirely too long a time spent waiting out in the rain, clothes and luggage getting horribly wet.

And as the car turned onto the drive, past the gates of Downton, the dark clouds that gathered over the property did not seem to bode well.

Robert pressed his hand against the glass and wiped away the fog that had collected. Rubbing slightly, he cleared just enough so that he could see the house as they came to the crest of the first hill. He expected it to feel different, somehow, but catching the first glimpse of the flag, flying as fluidly as ever, and of the yellow stones marking the solid walls, he felt little more than a brief calm that his journey was nearly finished.

The house came fully into view just moments later. It looked remarkably well kept, which he attributed to Mary and Matthew's influence—even if from afar—and he set about removing his cases from the back of the car. This particular driver did not remove luggage, even for the Earl of Grantham. He'd half a mind to ring the bell and wait for a footman to come get the bags but quickly remembered he had released all the footman before his trip; Carson would be the only one inside, and it seemed rather silly to wait for him to come all the way up for just two bags. So he proceeded to remove them, and pay the driver, stepping only in one puddle as he made his way to the door and rang.

The sounds of the motor driving away from the house, gravel crunching under the weight of the tires, was oddly comforting. All he wanted was peace, really, and maybe a hot bath to ease away some of the stress of travel. He waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time before the familiar click of the door lock could be heard and then, seconds later, he was face to face with Carson, who looked slightly out of breath and was clutching a silver teapot.

"Your Lordship, I didn't expect you back so—"

Robert interrupted him with a smile, picked up the bags as he eyed the teapot, and walked inside. "It's quite alright Carson. I apologize for neglecting to inform you of my plans; I meant to send a telegram before leaving America."

Carson, obviously flustered, nodded politely and moved to set the small pot down on the nearest table. "May I take your hat, Milord? As I said, I didn't expect you back until—"

Robert nodded, interrupting him once more, and removed the dampened hat. The hall was warm, surprisingly so on such a cool, rainy day, and there were lamps on in each room visible from the main entryway. Robert frowned slightly, remembering his stern instruction that Carson simply leave the house be, but he supposed the dust had finally gotten to him. "Thank you for maintaining the house, Carson. You don't know how much I appreciate it. Has Lady Mary been here?"

Carson nodded again, fidgeting slightly. "Yes, Milord, but not today. Her—"

Again, he was interrupted.

This time, though, not by Robert.

The unmistakable intonations of Cora's voice sounding out_, "Robert?"_ interrupted Carson this time, and both men turned, Robert wearing an expression far more shocked than Carson, to see Cora emerge from the library, needlework in hand.

For a moment, a very brief moment, he wondered if the sea air had finally gotten to his brain. A tingling, lightheaded feeling coursed through his body as he watched his wife approach him, dropping her needlework on the nearest table as she repeated his name with a tentative smile pulling at her lips. A quick glance at Carson, who had retrieved his teapot, confirmed that she was not an apparition.

Carson, took a step back from his employers and cleared his throat, explaining, "as I tried to inform Your Lordship, Her Ladyship was in the library…with tea," he added, nodding at the pot. And then, very swiftly, he nodded but once more before taking his leave, disappearing behind the library doors to leave them in privacy.

It was Cora who spoke first, taking another step forward as she reached out to clasp their hands together. "I was beginning to think you weren't actually returning," she murmured, looking up to meet his mystified gaze.

Robert stood from a long moment before squeezing her hands in recognition, or secondary confirmation, and replying, "Cora, unless I've really gone mad, I don't understand. How are you—how are you even…" he trailed off, distracted by her close proximity and the smell of her perfume.

"Here?" she finished. "Well, after I realized you'd gone, I went to the docks to see about getting a return ticket. The next ship wasn't leaving for another two weeks. I couldn't wait that long so I threw some things into a case and took the train up to New York. I got on a ship that night and arrived yesterday." She cleared her throat, pursing her lips slightly, and continued, "I checked with the dock workers in Liverpool; they told me your ship was behind mine, so I thought home would be the best place to find you."

"But, I still don't understand," Robert replied, in barely a whisper. "You—you told me that you wanted me to go, that you needed time." He held her hands tighter, weaving their fingers together in the hopes that his grasp would be strong enough to never let go.

Cora looked down at the rug, color rising in her cheeks. "I've gotten in the habit of saying far too many things that I don't mean," she said. "And, you didn't say goodbye," she answered softly. When he didn't answer, or move at all, really, she tried once more, asking, "would it be alright if I stay?"

"Stay?" Robert managed to whisper, ineffectually. She nodded, looking into his eyes, and released a great cry of surprise when without warning he swooped her up into his arms, spinning them both around in a circle. "Yes," he answered finally, setting her back down, but still securely in his grasp, "please—please stay for every day of every week of every year until the entire bloody house comes crumbling down," he replied, a wide smile on his face.

Robert, in a fit of utter happiness, picked her up once more, twirling them both as he felt his wife's lips press against his neck, her hands clasped together at the base of his neck.

The dark clouds, it seemed, were less a harbinger of gloom than he first thought.

* * *

The details of how exactly she and Robert ended up in bed seemed immaterial when compared to the fact that they _were _in bed together. Rain still fell outside, tapping against the windows of the bedroom, but the small fire Robert managed to light was enough to warm the room, casting everything in a most pleasant glow.

His thumb brushed lazily up and down her back as she lay in his arms, her chest pressed flush against his. Her fingers mirrored his patterns and stroked gently up and down his sides, her nails scraping so lightly it caused him to shiver every so often. They lay in nearly the same position they had only a handful of nights before, back in Newport. This time, though, the melancholic air that once surrounded them was gone. In its place were light touches, a warm embrace and quiet, sweet words whispered into the darkness.

Cora felt weightless, relaxed into his strong embrace. She was nearly asleep when he cleared his throat, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and said, "I have plans, you know."

It was an odd parody of what their pillow talk once was. It was still tentative and careful. Not knowing quite how to respond, she gazed up at him, his face flickering along with the crackling fire, and asked, "do you?" He looked so beautiful, in just that light. Perhaps it was an odd thing to think, her husband as beautiful. He was strong, handsome, powerful. But like this, with her, it was all she could do not to sigh over the curve of his chin or the way his eyelashes brushed against her cheek when he leaned close to her.

He smiled, sitting up, and gestured for her to return to his embrace, pressing another kiss to her forehead when she crawled up toward the headboard, resting contentedly against his shoulder. "Yes, lots and lots of plans."

"Are they good plans?" she murmured in question.

Robert nodded, slightly, and tightened his grip around her. "I think so. I—I don't want you to regret coming here," he answered.

Cora stilled the movements of her fingers, breathing in the comforting smell of Robert's cologne before carefully extracting herself from his arms. She clicked on the lamp beside the bed, as she had so many times before, and turned to face him, drawing one of the sheets up to wrap herself loosely in. "I didn't come _here,_" she started, "I came home. I don't expect you to forgive me, Robert. Not right away. But I hope you will." She took his hands, sitting quietly for a moment. "I want to hear all your plans, but don't make them for me; make them for us."

Robert, too, was silent for a long moment. "Cora?"

"Yes?"

"What changed your mind about coming home?"

Looking tenderly at her husband, his face still so hesitant as though she might up and leave, she burrowed back into the place beside him, nestling herself into the crook of his arm as she replied, "as soon as I woke up and you were gone, I knew I'd made the wrong choice. I'd been making the wrong choice for so very long but when I—" she paused, wiping an errant tear from her cheek, "—when I turned over in bed and the place where you had been was empty, I knew I wouldn't ever be able to sleep in that bed without you. I'm sorry for being so cruel, for blaming you for things that had nothing to do with you. It wasn't your fault," she said, looking purposefully at him, "it was never your fault."

Robert exhaled a long breath, settling back against the pillows beneath them as he began lazily stroking his thumb up and down her arm once more. "Cora?" he asked again, more hesitantly than before.

"Yes, darling?" she didn't turn her head this time, too comfortable in his arms to even open her eyes.

"Please don't ever leave me again," he whispered, so soft it was barely audible.

"I won't," she answered without hesitation. "I promise."

"Cora?" he asked one last time, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

When she answered, _"yes?" _again, he curled his body close to hers, leaning in to kiss her lips before replying, "I love you."

"I love you too, Robert. So very, very much."

Her words seemed to soothe him for, a moment later, after making a few passes through his hair with her fingertips, Cora felt his breath ease and quiet into the lightest of snores, signaling he was asleep. His body, a solid presence beside her made her feel safer than she had in months and reminded her of all she nearly let drift out to sea. She wouldn't—couldn't—leave, and while into his arms did not even care to entertain the thought.

She could remake her promise to him every day and never think again of breaking it, because if she knew one thing for certain it was this: Robert was, as he had always been, her home.

* * *

_A/N: I would like to thank everyone who has followed this story, reviewed, and given me such encouragement. Your words were always so lovely to read and I appreciate the support. An extra thank you to my darling beta-reader and friend, ladycobert, who read, edited and helped me navigate writers block many times!_

_Thank you, thank you, thank you. xo GranthamGal_


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